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OF  THE 

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Of  ILLINOIS 

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► 


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UBRARy  ; r 
UNiVERSilY  UF  ILLINOIS 
UREaNA 


WE  I'Ll® 


1'  -ii  E 


// 


Aiitlior  of  S’!"  Clair,  Ac.  Ac. 


HEVV  TOBK:  PrTBLI.SHED  ‘BY  P.M.HAVERTI 


THE 


WILD  lEiSH  &IEL 

A NATIONAL  TALE. 

BY  LADY  MORGAN 

AUTHOR  OF  ST.  CLAIR,  THE  NOVICE  OF  ST.  DOMINIC,  ETC. 


“Questa  gente  benche  mostra  selvagea 
E piir  gif  monte  la  contrada  accierba 
Nondimeno  I’e  dolce  ad  cui  I’assagia.” 

“This  race  of  men,  though  savage  they  may  seem, 

The  country,  too,  with  many  a mountain  rough, 

Yet  are  they  sweet  to  him  who  tries  and  tastes  them.’’ 

Uberti^s  Travels  thro*  Ireland^  14tA  Centwr^ 

IN  TWO  VOLUMES 

VOL.  L 


NEW  YORK : 

P.  J.  KENEDY, 
EXCELSIOR  CATHOLIC  PUBLISHING  HOUSE, 

5 Barclay  Street. 

1888. 


WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


* 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 

THE  EARL  OF  M TO  THE  HONORABLE  HORATIO 

M , king’s  bench. 

Castle  M , Leicestershire^ 

Feb,  — , 17—. 

If  there  are  certain  circumstances  under  which 
a fond  father  can  address  an  imprisoned  son. 
without  suffering  the  bitterest  heart-rendings  of 
paternal  agony,  such  are  not  those  under  which 
I now  address  you.  To  sustain  the  loss  of  the 
most  precious  of  all  human  rights,  and  forfeit  our 
liberty  at  the  shrine  ol  virtue,  in  defence  of  our 
country  abroad,  or  of  our  public  integrity  and 
principles  at  home,  brings  to  the  heart  of  the 
sufferer’s  dearest  sympathising  friend  a soothing 
solace,  almost  concomitant  to  the  poignancy  of 
his  afflictions;  and  leaves  the  decision  difficult, 

!• 


6 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


whether  in  the  scale  of  human  feelings,  triumphant 
pride  or  afiecti-onate  regret  preponderate. 

I would  not,”  said  the  old  earl  of  Ormond, 
“ give  up  my  dead  son  for  Uventy  living  ones.” 
Oh!  how  I envy  such  a father  the  possession,, 
and  even  the  loss  of  such  a child:  with  what 
eagerness  my  heart  rushes  back  to  that  period 
when  I too  triumphed  in  my  son ; when  I beheld 
him  glowing  in  all  the  unadulterated  virtues  of 
the  happiest  nature,  flushed  with  the  proud  con- 
sciousness of  superior  genius,  refined  by  a taste 
intuitively  elegant,  and  warmed  by  an  enthusiasm 
constitutionally  ardent ; his  character  indeed  tinc- 
tured with  the  bright  colouring  of  romantic  ec- 
centricity, but  marked  by  the  indelible  traces  of 
innate  rectitude,  and  ennobled  by  the  purest  prin- 
ciples of  native  generosity,  the  proudest  sense  of 
inviolable  honour,  I beheld  him  rush  eagerly  on 
life,  enamoured  of  its  seeming  good,  incredulous 
of  its  latent  evils,  till  fatally  fascinated  by  the 
magic  spell  of  the  former,  he  fell  an  early  victim 
to  the  successful  lures  of  the  latter.  The  grow- 
ing influence  of  his  passions  kept  pace  with  the 
expansion  of  his  mind,  and  the  moral  powers  of 
the  man  of  genius,  gave  way  to  the  overwhelming 
propensities  of  the  man  of  pleasure.  Yet  in  the 
midst  of  those  exotic  vices  (for  as  such  even  yet 
I would  consider  them,)  he  continued  at  once  the 
object  of  my  parental  partiality  and  anxious  soli- 
citude; 1 admired  while  I condemned,  I pitied 
while  I reproved.  ****** 


pyTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


7 


The  rights  of  primogeniture,  and  the  mild  and 
prudent  cast  of  your  brother’s  character,  left  me 
no  cares  either  for  his  worldly  interest  or  moral 
welfare  : born  to  titled  affluence,  his  destination 
in  life  was  ascertained  previous  to  his  entrance 
on  its  chequered  scene  ; and  equally  free  from 
passions  to  mislead,  or  talents  to  stimulate,  he 
promised  to  his  father  that  series  of  temperate 
satisfaction  which,  unillumined  by  those  corusca- 
tions, your  superior  and  promising  genius  flashed 
on  the  parental  heart,  could  not  prepare  for  its 
sanguine  feelings  that  mortal  disappointment  with 
which  you  have  destroyed  all  its  hopes.  On  the 
recent  death  of  my  father  I found  myself  pos- 
sessed of  a very  large  but  incumbered  property  : 
it  was  requisite  I should  make  the  same  estab- 
lishment for  my  eldest  son,  that  my  father  had 
made  for  me;  while  I was  conscious  that  my 
youngest  was  in  some  degree  to  stand  indebted 
to  his  own  exertions,  for  independence  as  well  as 
elevation  in  life. 

You  may  recollect  that  during  your  first  col- 
lege vacation,  we  conversed  on  the  subject  of 
that  liberal  profession  I had  chosen  for  you,  and 
you  agreed  with  me,  that  it  was  congenial  to  your 
powers,  and  not  inimical  to  your  taste ; while  the 
part  I was  anxious  you  should  take  in  the  legi- 
slation of  your  country,  seemed  at  once  to  rouse 
and  gratify  your  ambition;  but  the  pure  flame  of 
laudable  emulation  was  soon  extinguished  in  the 
iestrucdve  atmosphere  of  plea^re,  and  while 


8 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


beheld  you,  in  the  visionary  hopes  of  rny  parental 
ambition,  invested  with  the  crimson  robe  of  legal 
dignity,  or  shining  brightly  conspicuous  in  the 
splendid  galaxy  of  senatorial  luminaries,  you 
were  idly  presiding  as  the  high  priest  of  libertin- 
ism at  the  nocturnal  orgies  of  vitiated  dissipation, 
or  indolently  lingering  out  your  life  in  elegant 
but  unprofitable  pursuits. 

It  were  as  vain  as  impossible  to  trace  you 
through  every  degree  of  error  on  the  scale  of  folly 
and  imprudence,  and  such  a repetition  would  be 
more  heart  wounding  to  me  than  painful  to  you, 
were  it  even  made  under  the  most  extenuating 
bias  of  parental  fondness. 

I have  only  to  add,  that  though  already  greatly 
distressed  by  the  liquidation  of  your  debts,  at  a 
time  when  I am  singularly  circumstanced  with 
respect  to  pecuniary  resources,  I will  make  a 
struggle  to  free  you  from  the  chains  of  this  your 
present  eVo;i-hearted  creditor,  through  the  re- 
trenchment of  my  own  expenses,  and  my  tempo- 
rary retreat  to  tho  solitute  of  my  Irish  estate 
must  be  the  result ; provided  that  by  this  sacri- 
fice I purchace  your  acquiescence  to  my  wishes 
respecting  the  destiny  of  your  future  life,  and  an 
unreserved  abjuration  of  the  follies  which  have 
governed  your  past. 

Yours,  <kc.  &c. 

M . 


IHTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


9 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  M 


Lord, 

Suffer  me,  in  the  fullness  of  my  heart,  and  in 
the  language  of  one  prodigal  and  penitent  as  my- 
self, to  say,  “ I have  sinned  against  Heaven  and 
thee,  and  am  no  longer  worthy  to  be  called  thy 
son.”  Abandon  me  then,  I beseech  you,  as  such  ; 
deliver  me  up  to  the  destiny  that  involves  me  to 
the  complicated  tissue  of  errors  and  follies  I 
have  so  industriously  woven  with  my  own  hands ; 
for  though  I am  equal  to  sustain  the  judgment  my 
own  vices  have  drawn  down  upon  me,  I cannot 
support  the  cruel  mercy  with  which  your  good- 
ness endeavours  to  avert  its  weight. 

Among  the  numerous  catalogues  of  my  faults, 
a sordid  selfishness  finds  no  place.  Yet  I should 
deservedly  incur  its  imputation,  were  I to  accept 
of  freedom  on  such  terms  as  you  are  so  generous 
to  offer.  No,  my  Lord,  continue  to  adorn  that 
high  and  polished  circle  in  which  you  are  so 
eminently  calculated  to  move  ; nor  think  so  low- 
ly of  one^  who,  with  all  his  faults,  is  your  son, 
as  to  believe  him  ready  to  purchase  his  liberty  at 
the  expense  of  your  banishment  from  your  native 
country. 

1 am,  &c.  &c. 

H.  M. 


Ktng^s  Bench. 


10 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


TO  THE  HON.  HORATIO  M . 

An  act  to  which  the  exaggeration  of  yoi\r  feel- 
ings gives  the  epithet  of  banishment,  I shall  con- 
sider as  a voluntary  sequestration  from  scenes 
of  which  I am  weary,  to  scenes  which,  though 
thrice  visited,  still  preserve  the  poignant  charms 
of  novelty  and  interest.  Your  hasty  and  undi- 
gested answer  to  my  letter  (written  in  the  prompt 
emotion  of  the  moment,  ere  the  probable  conse- 
quence of  a romantic  rejection  to  an  offer  not 
unreflectingly  made,  could  be  duly  weighed  or 
coolly  examined)  convinces  me  experience  has 
contributed  little  to  the  modiflcation  of  your  feel- 
ings, or  the  prudent  regulation  of  your  conduct. 
It  is  this  promptitude  of  feeling,  this  contempt  of 
prudence,  that  formed  the  predisposing  cause  of 
your  errors  and  your  follies.  Dazzled  by  the 
brilliant  glare  of  the  splendid  virtues,  you  saw 
not,  you  would  not  see,  that  prudence  was  among 
(he  first  of  moral  excellences;  the  director,  the 
regulator,  the  standard  of  them  all  ; that  it  is  in 
fact  the  corrector  of  virtue  herself ; for  even  mr~ 
tue^  like  the  sun^  has  her  solstice,  beyond  which 
she  ought  not  to  move. 

If  you  would  retribute  what  you  seem  to  la- 
ment, and  unite  restitution  to  penitence,  leave  this 
country  for  a short  time,  and  abandon  with  the 
haunts  of  your  former  blameable  pursuits,  those 
associates  who  were  at  once  the  cause  and  pun- 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


11 


ishment  of  your  errors.  I myself  will  become 
your  partner  in  exile,  for  it  is  to  my  estate  in 
Ireland  I banish  you  for  the  summer.  You  have 
already  got  through  the  first  rough  brakes”  of 
your  profession  : as  you  can  now  serve  the  last 
term  of  this  season,  I see  no  cause  why  Coke 
upon  Lyttleton  cannot  be  as  well  studied  amidst  ^ 
the  wild  seclusion  of  Connaught  scenery,  and  on 
the  solitary  shores  of  the  ‘‘  steep  Atlantic,”  as  in 
the  busy  bustling  precincts  of  the  Temple. 

I have  only  to  add,  that  I shall  expect  your  un- 
divided attention  will  be  given  up  to  your  profes- 
sional studies;  that  you  will  for  a short  interval 
resign  the  fascinating  pursuits  of  polite  literature 
and  belles  lettres,  from  which  even  the  syren  spell 
of  pleasure  could  not  tear  you,  and  which  snatch- 
ed from  vice  many  of  those  hours  I believed  de- 
voted to  more  serious  studies.  I know  you  will 
find  it  no  less  difficult  to  resign  the  elegant  theo- 
ries of  your  favourite  Lavater,  for  the  dry  facts 
of  law  reports,  than  to  exchange  your  duodecimo 
editions  of  the  amatory  poets,  for  heavy  tomes 
of  cold  legal  disquisitions;  but  happiness  is  to 
be  purchased,  and  labour  is  the  price ; fame  and 
independence  are  the  result  of  talent  united  to 
great  exertion,  and  the  elegant  enjoyments  of 
literary  leisure  are  never  so  keenly  relished  as 
when  tasted  under  the  shade  of  that  flourishing 
laurel  which  our  own  efforts  have  reared  to  ma- 
ture perfection.  F arewell ! My  agent  has  orders 
respecting  the  arrangement  of  your  affairs.  You 


12 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


must  excuse  the  procrastination  of  our  interview 
till  we  meet  in  Ireland,  which  I fear  will  not  be 
so  immediate  as  my  wishes  would  incline.  I 
shall  write  to  my  banker  in  Dublin  to  replenish 
your  purse  on  your  arrival  in  Ireland,  and  to  my 
Connaught  steward,  to  prepare  for  your  reception 
at  M house.  Write  to  me  by  return. 

Once  more  farewell ! 

M 


TO  THE  EARL  OF  M . 

My  Lord, 

He  who  agonized  on  the  bed  of  Procrostiis 
reposed  on  a couch  of  down,  compared  to  the 
sufferings  of  him  who  in  the  heart  he  has  stabbed, 
beholds  the* pulse  of  generous  affection  still  beat- 
ing with  an  invariable  throb  for  the  being  who 
has  inflicted  the  wound. 

I shall  offer  you  no  thanks,  my  Lord,  for  the 
generosity  of  your  conduct,  nor  any  extenuation 
for  the  errors  of  mine. 

The  gratitude  the  one  has  given  birth  to — the 
remorse  which  the  other  has  awakened,  bid  equal 
defiance  to  expression.  I have  only  (fearfully)  to 
hope,  that  you  will  not  deny  my  almost  forfeited 
claim  to  the  title  of  your  son. 


H M. 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


13 


TO  J.  D.,  ESQ.,  M.  P. 


Holyhead. 

We  are  told  in  the  splendid  Apocrypha  of 
ancient  Irish  fable,  that  when  one  of  the  learned 
was  mifsing  on  the  Continent  of  Europe,  it  was 
proverbially  said, 

“ Amandatus  est  ad  disciplinum  in  Hibernia.'^ 

But  I cannot  .recollect  that  in  its  fabulous  or 
veracious  history,  Ireland  was  ever  the  mart  of 
voluntary  exile  to  the  man  of  pleasure  ; so  that 
when  you  and  the  rest  of  my  precious  associates 
miss  the  track  of  my  footsteps  in  the  oft  trod  path 
of  dissipation,  you  will  never  think  of  tracing  its 
pressure  to  the  wildest  of  the  Irish  shores,  and 
exclaim,  Amandatus  est  ad.,  ^c.  d^c. 

However,  I am  so  far  advanced  in  the  land  of 
Druidism,  on  my  way  to  the  Island  of  Saints,” 
while  you,  in  the  emporium  of  the  world,  are 
drinking  from  the  cup  of  conjugal  love  a tempo- 
rary oblivion  to  your  past  sins  and  wickedness, 
and  revelling  in  the  first  golden  dreams  of  matri- 
monial illusion. 

I suppose  an  account  of  my  high  crimes  and 
misdemeanours,  banishment,  &c.  &c.  have  alrea- 
dy reached  your  ears ; but  while  my  brethren  in 
transportation  are  offering  up  their  wishes  and: 
til  eir  hopes  on  the  shore,  to  the  unpropitious  god 

2 


14 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


of  winds,  indulge  me  in  the  garrulity  of  egotism, 
and  suder  me  to  correct  the  overcharged  picture 
of  that  arch  charicature  report^  by  giving  you  a 
correct  ehauche  of  the  recent  circumstances  of 
my  useless  life. 

When  I gave  you  convoy  as  far  as  Dover,  on 
your  way  to  France,  I returned  to  London,  to 

/ “ Surfeit  on  the  same 

and  yawn  my  joys ” 

And  was  again  soon  plunged  in  that  dreadful 
vacillation  of  mind  from  which  your  society  and 
conversation  had  so  lately  redeemed  me. 

Vibrating  between  an  innate  propensity  to  rights 
and  an  habitual  adherence  to  wrong;  sick  of  pur- 
suits I was  too  indolent  to  relinqush,  and  linked 
to  vice,  yet  still  enamoured  of  virtue ; weary  of 
the  useless,  joyless  inanity  of  my  existence,  yet 
without  energy,  without  power  to  regenerate  my 
worthless  being ; daily  losing  ground  in  the  minds 
of  the  inestimable  few  who  were  still  interested 
for  my  welfare ; nor  compensating  for  the  loss, 
by  the  gratification  of  any  one  feeling  in  my  own 
heart,  and  held  up  as  an  object  of  fashionable 
popularity  for  sustaining  that  character,  which  of 
all  others  I most  despised ; my'  taste  impoverish- 
ed by  a vicious  indulgence,  my  senses  palled  by 
repletion,  my  heart  chill  and  unawakened,  every 
appetite  depraved  and  pampered  into  satiety,  I 
iled  from  myself,  as  the  object  of  my  own  utter 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


15 


contpmpt  and  detestation,  and  found  a transient 
pleasurable  inebriety  in  the  well  practiced  blan- 
dishments of  Lady  C — . 

You  who  alone  know  me,  who  alone  have  open- 
ly condemned,  and  secretly  esteemed  me,  you 
who  have  wisely  culled  the  blossom  of  pleasure, 
while  J have  sucked  its  poison,  know  that  I am 
rather  a mediant  par  air,  than  from  any  irresisti- 
ble propensity  to  indiscriminate  libertinism.  In 
fact,  the  original  sin  of  my  nature  militates  against 
the  hackneyed  modes  of  hackneyed  licentious- 
ness ; for  I am  too  profound  a voluptuary  to  feel 
any  exquisite  gratification  from  such  gross  pur- 
suits as  the  “ swinish  multitude^^  of  fashion  ennoble 
with  that  name  of  little  understood,  pleasure. 
Misled  in  my  earliest  youth  by  “ passion’s  meteor 
ray,”  even  then  my  heart  called  (but  called  ki 
vain,)  for  a thousand  delicious  refinements  to 
give  poignancy  to  the  mere  transient  impulse  of 
sense. 

Oh ! my  dear  friend,  if  in  that  sunny  season 
of  existence  when  the  ardours  of  youth  nourish  ^ 
in  our  bosom  a thousand  indescribable  emotions 
of  tenderness  and  love,  it  had  been  my  fortunate 
destiny  to  have  met  with  a being,  who — but  this 
is  an  idle  regret,  perhaps  an  idle  supposition ; — 
the  moment  of  ardent  susceptibility  is  over,  when 
woman  becomes  the  sole  spell  which  lures  us  to 
good  or  ill,  and  when  her  omnipotence,  accord- 
ing to  the  bias  of  her  own  nature,  and  the  or- 
ganization of  those  feelings  on  which  it  operates, 


16 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


determines,  in  a certain  degree  oui  destiny  throTjgli 
life — leads  the  mind  through  the  medium  of  the 
heart  to  the  noblest  pursuits,  or  seduces  it  through 
the  medium  of  the  passions  to  the  basest  career. 
• That  I became  the  dupe  of  Lady  C — , and  her 
artful  predecessor,  arose  from  the  want  of  that 
“ something  still  unpossessed,”  to  fill  my  life’s 
dreadful  void.  I sensibly  felt  the  want  of  an  ob- 
ject to  interest  my  feelings,  and  laboured  under 
that  dreadful  interregnum  of  the  heart,  reason 
and  ambition  ; which  leaves  the  craving  passions 
open  to  every  invader.  Lady  C — perceived  the 
situation  of  my  mind,  and — but  spare  me  the  de- 
tail of  a connexion  which  even  in  memory,  pro- 
duces a nausea  of  every  sense  and  feeling.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say,  that  equally  the  victim  of  the  hus- 
band’s villainy  as  the  wife’s  artifice,  I stifled  on 
its  birth  a threatened  prosecution,  by  giving  my 
bond  for  a sum  I was  unable  to  liquidate : it  was 
given  as  for  a gambling  debt,  but  my  father,  who 
had  long  suspected,  and  endeavoured  to  break 
this  fatal  connexion,  guessed  at  the  truth,  and 
suffered  me  to  become  a guest  [mal  voluntaire) 
in  the  King’s  Bench.  This  unusual  severity  on 
his  part,  lessened  not  on  mine  the  sense  of  his 
indulgence  to  my  former  boundless  extravagance, 
and  I determined  to  remain  a prisoner  for  life, 
rather  than  owe  my  liberty  to  a new  imposition 
on  his  tenderness,  by  such  solicitings  as  have 
hitherto  been  invariably  crowned  with  success, 
though  answered  with  reprehension. 


INTRO  DUCT  OK  Y LETTERS. 


17 


I had  been  already  six  weeks  a prisoner,  de- 
serted by  those  gay  moths  that  had  fluttered  round 
the  beam  of  my  transient  prosperity ; delivered 
up  to  all  the  maddening  meditation  of  remorse, 
when  1 received  a letter  from  my  father  (then 
with  my  brother  in  Leicestershire,)  couched  in 
his  usual  terms  of  reprehension,  and  intervals  of 
tenderness  ; ascertaining  every  error  with  judi- 
cial exactitude,  and  associating  every  fault  with 
some  ideal  excellence  of  parental  creation,  alter- 
nately the  father  and  the  judge ; and  as  you  once 
said,  when  I accused  him  of  partiality  to  his 
eldest  born,  “ talking  best  of  Edward  was  most 
of  me.” 

In  a word,  he  has  behaved  like  an  Angel.  So 
well,  that  by  Heavens!  I can  scarcely  bear  to 
think  of  it.  A spurious  half-bred  generosity — a 
little  tincture  of  illiberality  on  his  side,  would 
have  been  Balm  of  Gillead  to  my  wounded  con- 
science ; but  with  unqualified  goodness  he  has 
paid  all  my  debts,  supplied  my  purse  beyond  my 
wants,  and  only  asks  in  return,  that  I will  retire 
for  a few  months  to  Ireland,  and  this  I belieye 
merely  to  wean  me  from  the  presence  of  an  ob- 
ject which  he  falsely  believes  still  hangs  about 
my  heart  with  no  moderate  influence. 

And  yet  I wish  his  mercy  had  flowed  in  any 
other  channel,  even  though  more  confined  and 
less  liberal 

Had  he  banished  me  to  the  savao^e  desolations 

o 

of  Siberia,  my  exile  would  have  had  some  charac* 
B 2* 


18 


- INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


ter ; had  he  even  transported  me  to  a South  Sea 
Island,  or  threw  me  into  an  Esquimaux  hut,  my 
new  species  of  being  would  have  been  touched 
with  some  interest;  for  in  fact,  the  present  re- 
laxed state  of  my  intellectual  system  requires 
some  strong  transition  of  place,  circumstance, 
and  manners,  to  wind  it  up  to  its  native  tone,  to 
rouse  it  to  energy,  or  awaken  it  to  exertion. 

But  sent  to  a country  against  which  I have  a 
decided  prejudice — which  I suppose  semi-bar- 
barous, semi-civilized;  has  lost  the  strong  and 
hardy  features  of  savage  life,  without  acquiring 
those  graces  which  distinguish  polished  society 
— I shall  neither  participate  in  the  poignant  plea- 
sure of  awakened  curiosity  and  acquired  informa- 
tion, nor  taste  the  least  of  those  enjoyments  whicli 
courted  my  acceptance  in  my  native  land.  En-  - 
joyments  did  I say  ! And  were  they  indeed  en- 
joyments? How  readily  the  mind  adopts  the 
phraseology  of  habit,  when  the  sentiment  it  once 
clothed  no  longer  exists.  Would  that  my  pa^t 
pursuits  were  even  in  recollection,  the  aspect  of 
enjoyments.  But  even  my  memory  has  lost  its 
character  of  energy,  and  the  past,  like  the  pre- 
sent, appears  one  unwearied  scence  of  chill  and 
vapid  existence.  No  sweet  point  of  reflection 
seizes  on  the  recollective  powers.  No  actual 
joy  WOOS  my  heart’s  participation,  and  no  pros- 
pect of  future  felicity  glows  on  the  distant  vista 
of  life,  or  awakens  the  quick  throb  of  hope  and 
expectation ; all  is  cold,  sullen  and  dreary. 


INTRODUCTORY  LETTERS. 


19 


Laval  seems  to  entertain  no  less  prejudice 
against  this  country  than  his  master,  he  has  there- 
fore begged  leave  of  absence  until  my  father 
comes  over.  Pray  have  the  goodness  to  send  me 
by  him  a box  of  Italian  crayons,  and  a good  ther- 
mometer; for  I must  have  something  to  relieve 
the  tedium  vitm  of  my  exiled  days ; and  in  my 
articles  of  stipulation  with  my  father,  chemistry 
and  belles  lettres  are  specially  prohibited.  It  was 
a useless  prohibition,  for  Heaven  knows,  chemis- 
try would  have  been  the  last  study  I should  have 
flown  to  in  my  present  state  of  mind.  For  how 
can  he  look  minutely  into  the  intimate  structure 
of  things,  and  resolve  them  into  their  simple  and 
elementary  substance,  whose  own  disordered 
mind  is  incapable  of  analyzing  the  passions  by 
which  it  is  agitated,  of  ascertaining  the  recipro- 
cal relation  of  its  incoherent  ideas,  or  combining 
them  in  different  proportions  (from  those  by  which 
they  were  united  by  chance,)  in  order  to  join  a 
new  and  useful  compound  for  the  benefit  of  fu- 
ture life  ? As  for  belles  lettres ! so  blunted  are 
all  those  powers  once  so 

Active  and  strong,  and  feelingly  alive 
To  each  fine  impulse,’^ 

that  not  one  “ pansee  coleur  de  rose^''  lingers  on  the 
surface  of  my  faded  imagination,  and  I should 
turn  with  as  much  apathy  from  the  sentimental 
sorcery  of  RosseaUy  as  from  the  volumnious  ver- 


20 


INTRODUCTORV  LETTERS. 


bosity  of  an  High  German  doctor;  yawn  ovei 
“ The  Pleasures  of  Memory,”  and  run  the  risk 
of  falling  fast  asleep  with  the  brilliant  Madame 
de  Sevigne  in  my  hand.  So  send  me  a Fahren- 
heit, that  I may  bend  the  few  coldly  mechanical 
powers  left  me,  to  ascertain  the  temperature  of 
my  wild  western  territories^  and  expect  my  letters 
from  thence  to  be  only  filled  with  the  summary 
results  of  metoric  instruments,  and  synoptical 
Tiews  of  common  phenomena. 

Adieu. 


H.  M. 


rK« 


WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


LETTER  I. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Dublin^  Murch^  — , 17 — 

T REMEMBER,  when  I was  a boy,  meeting  sorae« 
where  with  the  quaintly  written  travels  of  Mory- 
son  through  Ireland,  and  being  particularly  struck 
with  his  assertion,  that  so  late  as  the  days  of 
Elizabeth,  an  Irish  chieftain  and  his  family  were 
frequently  seen  seated  round  their  domestic  fire 
in  a state  of  perfect  nudity.  This  singidar  anec- 
dote (so  illustrative  of  the  barbarity  of  the  Irish, 
at  a period  when  civilization  had  made  such  a 
wonderful  progress  even  in  its  sister  countries,) 
fastened  so  strongly  on  my  boyish  imagination, 
that  whenever  the  Irish  were  mentioned  in  my 
presence,  an  Esquimaux  group  circling  round  the 
fire  which  was  to  dress  a dinner,  or  broil  an  enemy, 
was  the  image  which  presented  itself  to  my  mind ; 
and  in  this  trivial  source,  I believe,  originated 


22 


>THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


that  early  formed  opinion  of  Irish  ferocity,  which 
has  since  been  nurtured  into  a confirmed  preju* 
dice.  So  true  it  is,  that  almost  ail  the  erroneous 
principles  which  influenco  our  maturer  being,  are 
to  be  traced  to  some  fatal  association  of  ideas 
received  and  formed  in  early  life.  But  whatever 
may  be  the  cause^  I feel  the  strongest  objection  to 
becoming  a resident  in  the  remote  part  of  a coun- 
tiy  which  is  still  shaken  by  the  convulsions  of  an 
anarchical  spirit ; where  for  a series  of  ages  the 
olive  of  peace  has  not  been  suffered  to  shoot  forth 
one  sweet  blossom  of  national  concord,  which  the 
sword  of  civil  dissension  has  not  cropt  almost  in 
the  germ;  and  the  natural  character  of  whose 
factious  sons,  as  we  are  still  taught  to  believe,  is 
turbulent,  faithless,  intemperate,  and  cruel ; for- 
merly destitute  of  arts,  letters,  or  civilization,  and 
still  but  slowly  submitting  to  their  salutary  and 
ennobling  influence. 

To  confess  the  truth,  I had  so  far  suffered  pre- 
judice to  get  the  start  of  unbiassed  liberality,  that 
I had  almost  assigned  to  these  rude  people  scenes 
appropriately  barbarous ; and  never  was  more  plea- 
santly astonished,  than  when  the  morning’s  dawn 
gave  to  my  view  one  of  the  most  splendid  spec- 
tacles in  the  scene  of  picturesque  creation  I had 
ever  beheld,  or  indeed  ever  conceived — the  bay 
of  Dublin. 

A foreigner  on  board  the  packet  compared  the 
view  to  that  which  the  bay  of  Naples  affords  : I 
cannot  judge  of  the  justness  of  the  comparison, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


23 


thoiigli  I am  told  one  very  general  and  common- 
place ; but  if  the  scenic  beauties  of  the  Irish  bay 
are  exceeded  by  those  of  the  Neapolitan,  my 
fancy  falls  short  in  a just  conception  of  its  charms. 
The  springing  up  of  a contrary  wind  kept  us  for 
a considerable  time  beating  about  this  enchanting 
coast;  the  weather  suddenly  changed,  the  rain 
poured  in  torrents,  a storm  arose,  and  the  beauti- 
ful prospect  which  had  fascinated  our  gaze,  van- 
ished in  the  mists  of  impenetrable  obscurity. 

As  we  had  the  mail  on  board,  a boat  was  sent 
out  to  receive  it,  the  oars  of  which  were  plied  by 
six  men,  whose  statures,  limbs,  and  features  de- 
clared them  the  lingering  progeny  of  the  once 
formidable  race  of  Irish  giants.  Bare  headed, 
they  “ bided  the  pelting  of  the  pitiless  storm,” 
with  no  other  barrier  to  its  fury,  than  what  tatter- 
ed check  trousers,  and  shirts  open  at  neck,  and 
tucked  above  the  elbows  afforded ; and  which 
thus  disposed,  betrayed  the  sinewy  contexture  of 
forms,  which  might  have  individually  afforded  a 
model  to  sculpture,  for  the  colossal  statue  of  an 
Hercules,  under  all  the  different  aspects  of 
strength  and  exertion.* 

A few  of  the  passengers  proposing  to  venture 
in  the  boat,  I listlessly  followed,  and  found  myself 
seated  by  one  of  these  sea  monsters,  who,  in  an 
accent  that  made  me  startle,  addressed  me  in 

♦This  little  marine  sketch  is  by  no  means  a fancy  picture ; 
it  was  actually  copied  from  the  life,  in  the  summer  of  1806 


24 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


English  at  least  as  pure  and  correct  as  a Thames’ 
boatman  would  use  ; and  with  so  much  courtesy, 
cheerfulness,  and  respect,  that  I was  at  a loss  to 
reconcile  such  civilization  of  manner  to  such  fe- 
rocity of  appearance ; while  his  companions  as 
they  stemmed  the  mountainous  waves,  or  plied 
their  heavy  oars,  displayed  such  a vein  of  low  hu- 
mour and  quaint  drollery,  and  in  a language  so  cu- 
riously expressive  and  original,  that  no  longer 
able  to  suppress  my  surprise,  I betrayed  it  to  a 
gentleman  who  sat  near  me,  and  by  whom  I was 
assured  that  this  species  of  colloquial  wit  was  pe- 
culiar to  the  lower  class  of  the  Irish,  who  bor- 
rowed much  of  their  curious  phraseology  from 
the  peculiar  idiom  of  their  own  tongue,  and  the 
cheeriness  of  manner  from  the  native  exility  of 
their  temperament ; “ and  as  for  their  courteous- 
ness.” he  continued,  “ you  will  find  them  on  a 
further  intercourse,  civil  even  to  adulation,  as  long 
as  you  treat  them  with  apparent  kindness,  but  an 
opposite  conduct  will  prove  their  manner  propor- 
tionably  uncivilized.”  * 

“ It  is  very  excusable,”  said  I,  “ they  are  of  a 
class  in  society  to  which  the  modification  of  the 
feelings  are  unknown,  and  to  be  sensibly  alive  to 
kindness  or  to  unkindness,  is,  in  my  opinion,  a 
noble  trait  in  the  national  character  of  an  unsO' 
phisticated  people.” 

While  we  spoke,  we  landed,  and  for  the  some- 
thing like  pleasurable  emotion,  which  the  first  on 
my  list  of  Irish  acquaintance  produced  in  my 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


2d 

mind,  -I  distributed  among  these  “ sons  of  the 
waves,”  more  silver  than  1 believe  they  expected 
Had  I bestowed  a principality  on  an  Englishman 
of  the  same  rank,  he  would  have  been  less  lavish 
of  the  eloquence  of  gratitude  on  his  benefactor, 
though  he  might  equally  have  felt  the  sentiment. — 
So  much  for  iiiy  voyage  across  the  Channel  I 
This  city  is  to  London  like  a small  temple  of 
the  Ionic  order,  whose  proportions  are  delicate, 
whose  character  is  elegance,  compared  to  a vast 
palace,  whose  Corinthian  pillars  at  once  denote 
strength  and  magnificence. 

The  wondrous  extent  of  London  excites  our 
amazement ; the  compact  uniformity  of  Dublin 
our  admiration.  But  a dispersion  is  less  within 
the  coup-d^ceil  of  observance,  than  aggregation, 
the  small,  but  harmonious  features  of  Dublin  sieze 
at  once  on  the  eye,  while  the  scattered  but  splen- 
did traits  of  London,  excite  a less  immediate  and 
more  progressive  admiration,  which  is  often  lost 
in  the  intervals  that  occur  between  those  objects 
'vhich  are  calculated  to  excite  it. 

In  London,  the  miserable  shop  of  a gin  seller, 
iud  the  magnificent  palace  of  a Duke,  alternately 
• reate  disgust,  or  awaken  approbation. 

In  Dublin  the  buildings  are  not  arranged  upon 
';ch  democratic  principles.  The  plebian  hut  of- 
rs  no  foil  to  the  patrician  edifice,  while  their 
^ ;>lendid  and  beautiful  public  structures  are  so 
- ‘Osely  connected,  as  with  some  de^ee  of  policy 


a 


26 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


to  Strike  at  once  upon  the  eye  in  the  happiest 
combination.* 

In  other  respects  this  city  appears  to  me  to  be 
the  miniature  copy  of  our  imperial  original,  though 
minutely  imitative  in  show  and  glare.  Something 
less  observant  of  life’s  prime  luxuries,  order  and 
cleanliness,  there  are  a certain  class  of  wretches 
v/ho  haunt  the  streets  of  Dublin,  so  emblematic 
of  vice,  poverty,  idleness,  and  filth,  that  disgust 
and  pity  frequently  succeed  in  the  minds  of  the 
stranger  to  sentiments  of  pleasure,  surprise,  and 
admiration.  For  the  origin  of  this  evil,  I must 
refer  you  to  the  supreme  police  of  the  city ; but 
whatever  may  be  the  cause,  the  effects  (to  an 
Englishman  especially)  are  dreadful  and  disgust- 
ing beyond  all  expression. 

Although  my  father  has  a lage  connexion  here, 
yet  he  only  gave  me  a letter  to  his  banker,  who 
has  forced  me  to  make  his  house  my  home  for  the 
few  days  I shall  remain  in  Dublin,  and  whose 
cordiality  and  kindness  sanctions  all  that  has  ever 
been  circulated  of  Irish  hospitality. 

In  the  present  state  of  my  feelings,  however, 
a party  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  with  a tribe  of 
Indian  hunters,  would  be  more  consonant  to  my 
inclinations  than  the  refined  pleasures  of  the  most 
polished  circles  in  the  world.  Yet  these  warm- 

* Although  in  one  point  of  view,  there  may  be  a policy 
in  this  close  association  of  splendid  objects,  yet  it  is  a cir« 
cuinstance  of  general  and  just  condemnation  to  all  stranr 
gers  who  are  not  confined  to  a partial  survey  of  the  city. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


27 


hearted  people,  who  find  in  the  name  of  stranger 
an  irresistible  lure  to  every  kind  attention,  will 
force  me  to  be  happy  in  despite  of  myself,  and 
overwhelm  me  with  invitations,  some  of  which  it 
is  impossible  to  resist.  My  prejudices  have  re- 
ceived some  mortal  strokes,  when  I perceived  that 
the  natives  of  this  barbarous  country  have  got 
goal  for  goal  with  us,  in  every  elegant  refinement 
of  life  and  manners  ; the  only  difference  I can 
perceive  between  a London  and  a Dublin  rout  is, 
that  Lere,  amongst  the  first  class,  there  is  a 
warmth  and  cordiality  of  address,  which,  though 
perhaps  not  more  sincere  than  the- cold  formality 
of  British  ceremony,  is  certainly  more  fasci- 
nating.* 

It  is  not,  however,  in  Dublin  I shall  expect  to 
find  the  tone  of  national  character  and  manner ; 
in  the  first  circles  of  all  great  cities  (as  in  courts) 
the  native  features  of  national  character  are  sof- 
tened into  general  uniformity,  and  the  genuine 
feelings  of  nature  are  suppressed  or  exchanged 
for  a political  compliance  with  the  reigning  modes 
and  customs,  which  hold  their  tenure  from  the 
sanction  and  example  of  the  seat  of  government. 
Before  I close  this,  I must  make  one  observation, 
which  I think  will  speak  more  than  volumes  for 
the  refinement  of  these  people. 

♦ Every  unprejudiced  traveller  who  visits  them  [the 
Irish]  will  be  as  much  pleased  with  their  cheerfuiness  aa 
obliged  by  their  hospitality;  and  will  find  them  a Drave, 
polite,  and  liberal  people.” — Philosophical  Survey  through 
Ireland  by  Mr.  Young. 


28 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


During  my  short  residence  here,  I ha\e  been 
forced,  in  true  spirit  of  Irish  dissipation,  into  three 
parties  of  a night ; and  I have  upon  these  occa- 
sions observed  that  the  most  courted  objects  of 
popular  attention,  were  those  whose  talents  alone 
endowed  them  with  distinction.  Besides  ama- 
teurs, I have  met  with  many  professional  persons, 
whom  I knew  in  London  as  public  characters, 
and  who  are  here  incorporated  in  the  first  and 
most  brilliant  circles,  appearing  to  feel  no  other 
inequality,  than  what  their  own  superiority  of  ge- 
nius confers 

I leave  Dublin  to-morrow  for  M house.  It 

is  situated  in  the  county  of , on  the  north- 

west coast  of  Connaught,  which  I am  told  is  the 
classic  ground  of  Ireland.  The  native  Irish,  pur- 
sued by  religious  and  political  bigotry,  made  it  the 
asylum  of  their  sufferings,  and  were  separated 
by  a provincial  barrier  from  an  intercourse  with 
the  rest  of  Ireland,  until  after  the  Restoration  ; 
so  I shall  have  a fair  opportunity  of  beholding  the 
Irish  character  in  all  its  primeval  ferocity. 

Direct  your  next  to  Bally , which  I find  is 

the  nearest  post  town  to  my  Kamskatkan  palace , 
where*  with  no  other  society  than  that  of  Black 
stone  and  Co.  I shall  lead  such  a life  of  animal 
existence,  as  Prior  gives  to  his  Contented  Cou- 
ple — 

**  They  ate  and  drank,  and  slept — what  then? 

Why,  slep‘  and  drank,  and  ale  again.” — 

A.dieu.  H.  M. 


▼HE  ^ILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


29 


LETTER  11. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

M HcMse. 

In  the  various  modes  of  penance  invented  by 
the  various  penance  mongers  of  pious  austerity, 
did  you  ever  hear  the  travelling  in  an  Irish  post- 
chaise  enumerated  as  a punishment,  which  by  far 
exceeds  horse-hair  shirts  and  voluntary  flagela- 
tion  ? My  first  day’s  journey  from  Dublin  being 
as  wet  a one  as  this  moist  climate  and  capricious 
season  ever  produced,  my  berlin  answered  all  the 
purposes  of  a shower  hath^  while  the  ventillating 
principles  on  which  the  windows  were  construct- 
ed, gave  me  all  the  benefit  to  be  derived  from  the 
breathy  influence  of  the  four  cardinal  points. 

Unable  any  longer  to  sit  tamely  enduring  the 
penalty  of  Adam,  the  season^ s change  f or  to  sus- 
tain any  longer  the  “ hair-breadth  ’scapes,”  which 
the  most  dismantled  of  vehicles  afforded  me,  to- 
gether with  delays  and  stoppages  of  every  spe- 
cies to  be  found  in  the  catalogue  of  procrastina- 
tion and  mischance,  I took  my  seat  in  a mail 
coach  which  I met  at  my  third  stage,  and  which 
was  going  to  a town  within  twenty  miles  of  Bal- 
ly  . These  twenty  miles,  by  far  the  most 

agreeable  of  my  journey,  I performed  as  we  once 
(in  days  of  boyish  errantry)  accomplished  a toui 
to  Wales— on  foot. 


30 


THE  WILD  n ISH  GIRL. 


I had  previously  sent  my  baggage,  and  was 
happily  unincumbered  with  a servant,  for  the  fas- 
tidious delicacy  of  Monsieur  Laval  would  never 
have  been  adequate  to  the  fatigues  of  a pedestri- 
an tour  through  a country  wild  and  mountainous 
as  his  own  native  Savoy.  But  to  me  every  diffi- 
culty was  an  effort  of  some  good  genius  chasing 
the  demon  of  lethargy  from  the  usurpations  of 
my  mind’s  empire.  Every  obstacle  that  called 
for  exertion  was  a temporary  revival  of  latent 
energy  ; and  every  unforced  effort  worth  an  age 
of  indolent  indulgence. 

To  him  who  derives  gratification  from  the  em- 
bellished labours  of  art,  rather  than  the  simple 
but  sublime  operation  of  nature,  Irish  scenery 
will  afford  little  interest ; but  the  bold  features 
of  its  varying  landscape,  the  stupendous  attitude 
of  its  “ cloud  capt”  mountains,  the  impervious 
gloom  of  its  deep  embosomed  glens,  the  savage 
desolation  of  its  uncultivated  heaths,  and  bound- 
less bogs,  with  those  rich  veins  of  a picturesque 
champaigne,  thrown  at  intervals  into  gay  expan- 
sion by  the  hand  of  nature,  awaken  in  the  mind 
of  the  poetic  or  pictoral  traveller,  all  the  pleasures 
of  tasteful  enjoyment,  all  the  sublime  emotions  of 
a rapt  imagination.  And  if  the  glowing  fancy  of 
Claude  Loraine  would  have  dwelt  enraptured  on 
the  paradisial  charms  of  English  landscape,  the 
superior  genius  of  Salvator  Rosa  would  have  re- 
posed its  eagle  wing  amidst  those  scenes  of  mys- 
terious sublimity,  with  which  the  wildly  magnifi- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


31 


cent  landscape  of  Ireland  abounds.  But  the  lib- 
erality of  nature  appears  to  me  to  be  here  but 
frugally  assisted  by  the  donations  of  art.  Here 
agriculture  appears  in  the  least  felicitous  of  hel 
aspects.  The  rich  treasures  of  Ceres  seldom 
wave  their  golden  heads  over  the  earth’s  fertile 
bosom ; the  verdant  drapery  of  young  plantations 
rarely  skreens  out  the  coarser  features  of  a rigid 
soil,  the  cheerless  aspect  of  a gloomy  bog ; while 
the  unvaried  surface  of  the  perpetual  pasturage 
which  satisfies  the  eye  of  the  interested  grazier, 
disappoints  the  glance  of  the  tasteful  spectator. 

Within  twenty  miles  of  Bally I was  liter- 

ally dropt  by  the  stage  at  the  foot  of  a mountain, 
to  which  your  native  Wrekin  is  but  a hillock. 
The  dawn  was  just  risen,  and  flung  its  gray  and 
reserved  tints  on  a scene  of  which  the  mountain- 
ous region  of  Capel  Cerig  will  give  you  the  most 
adequate  idea. 

Mountain  rising  over  mountain,  swelled  like  an 
amphitheatre  to  those  clouds  which,  faintly  tinged 
with  the  sun’s  prelusive  beams,  and  rising  from 
the  earthly  summits  where  they  had  reposed,  in- 
corporated with  the  kindling  aether  of  a purer 
atmosphere. 

All  was  silent  and  solitary — a tranquility  tinged 
with  terror,  a sort  of  “ delightful  horror,”  breath- 
ed on  every  side. — I was  alone,  and  felt  like  the 
presiding  genius  of  desolation  ! 

As  I had  previously  learned  my  route,  after  a 
minute’s  contemplation  of  the  scene  before  me,  I 


32 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


pursued  my  solitary  ramble  along  a steep  and 
trackless  path,  which  wound  gradually  down  to- 
wards a great  lake,  an  almost  miniature  sea,  that 
lay  embosomed  amidst  those  stupendous  heights 
whose  rugged  forms,  now  bare,  desolate,  and 
barren,  now  clothed  with  yellow  furze  and  creep- 
ing underwood,  or  crowned  with  misnic  forests, 
appeared  towering  above  my  head  in  endless  va- 
riety. The  progress  of  the  sun  convinced  me 
that  mine  must  have  been  slow,  as  it  was  perpetu- 
ally interrupted  by  pauses  of  curiosity  and  admi- 
ration, and  by  long  and  many  lapses  of  thoughtful 
reverie  ; and  fearing  that  I had  lost  my  way  (as  I 
had  not  yet  caught  a view  of  the  village,  in  which, 
seven  miles  distant  from  the  spot  where  I had  left 
the  stage,  I was  assured  I should  find  an  excel- 
lent breakfast,)  I ascended  that  part  of  the  moun- 
tain where,  on  one  of  its  vivid  points,  a something 
like  a human  habitation  hung  suspended,  and 
where  I hoped  to  obtain  a carte  du  'pays:  the  ex- 
terior of  this  hut^  or  cahin^  as  it  is  called,  like  the 
few  I had  seen  which  were  not  built  of  mud,  re- 
sembled in  one  instance  the  magic  palace  of 
Chaucer,  and  was  erected  with  loose  stones, 

“ Which,  cunningly,  were  without  mortar  laid.” 

thinly  thatched  with  straw ; an  aperture  in  the 
roof  served  rather  to  admit  the  air  than  emit  the 
smoke,  a circumstance  to  which  the  wretched  in- 
habitants of  those  wretched  hovels  seem  so  per- 
fectly naturalized,  that  they  live  in  a constant  state 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


33 


of  fumigation ; and  a fracture  in  the  side  \s  r\\ 
(meant  1 suppose  as  a substitute  for  a casement) 
was  stuffed  with  straw,  while  the  door,  olf  its 
hinges,  was  laid  across  the  threshhold,  as  a bar- 
rier to  a little  crying  boy,  who  sitting  within,  be- 
moaned his  captivity  in  a tone  of  voice  not  quite 
so  mellifluous  as  that  which  Mons.  Sanctyon 
ascribes  to  the  crying  children  of  a certain  dis- 
trict in  Persia,  but  perfectly  in  unison  with  the 
vocal  exertions  of  the  companion  of  his  imprison- 
ment, a large  sow.  I approached — removed  the 
barrier  : the  boy  and  the  animal  escaped  together, 
and  I found  myself  alone  in  the  centre  of  this 
miserable  asylum  of  human  wretchedness — the 
residence  of  an  Irish  peasant.  To  those  who 
have  only  contemplated  this  useful  order  of  socie- 
ty in  England,  “ where  every  rood  of  ground 
maintains  its  man,”  and  where  the  peasant  liber- 
ally enjoys  the  comforts  as  well  as  the  necessaries 
of  life,  the  wretched  picture  which  the  interior 
of  an  Irish  cabin  presents,  would  be  at  once  an 
object  of  compassion  and  disgust.* 

* Sometimes  excavated  from  a hill,  sometimes  erected 
with  loose  stones,  but  most  generally  built  of  mud,  the 
cabin  is  divided  into  two  apartments,  the  one  littered  with 
straw  and  coarse  rugs,  and  sometimes,  (but  very  rarely) 
furnished  with  the  luxury  of  a chaff  bed,  serves  as  a dor 
mitory  not  only  to  the  family  of  both  sexes,  but  in  general 
to  any  animal  they  are  so  fortunate  as  to  posses-s  ; the  other 
chamber  answers  for  every  purpose  of  domesticity,  though 
almost  destitufe  of  every  domestic  im.plement,  except  the 
iron  pot  in  which  the  potatoes  are  boiled,  and  the  stool  on 
which  they  are  flung.  From  those  wretched  hovels 
C 


34 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Almost  siiflbcated,  and  not  surprised  that  it  was 
deserted  pro  tempo,  I hastened  away,  and  was  at- 
tracted towards  a ruinous  barn  by  a full  chorus  of 
female  voices — where  a group  of  young  females 
were  seated  round  an  old  hag  who  formed  the 
centre  of  the  circle  ; they  were  all  busily  em- 
ployed at  their  wheels,  which  I observed  went 

(which  often  appears  amidst  scenes  that  might  furnish  the 
richest  models  to  poetic  imitation}  it  is  common  to  behold 
a group  of  children  rush  forth  at  the  sound  of  a horse’s 
foot,  or  carriage  wheel,  regardless  of  the  season’s  rigours, 
in  a perfect  state  of  nudity,  or  covered  with  the  drapery 
of  wretchedness,  which  gives  to  their  appearance  a still 
stronger  character  of  poverty ; yet  even  in  these  misera- 
ble huts  you  will  seldom  find  the  spirit  of  urbanity  absent 
— the  genius  of  hospitality  never.  I remember  meeting 
with  an  instance  of  both,  that  made  a deep  impression  on 
my  heart;  in  the  autumn  of  1804,  in  the  course  of  a mor- 
ning ramble  with  a charming  Knglishwoman,  in  the  coun- 
ty of  Sligo,  I stopped  to  rest  myself  in  a cabin,  while  she 
proceeded  to  pay  a visit  to  the  respectable  family  of  the 
O’H  — ^s,  of  Nymph’s  Field:  when  I entered  I found  it 
occupied  by  an  old  woman  and  her  three  granddaughters  ; 
two  of  the  young  women  were  employed  scutching  flax, 
the  other  in  some  domestic  employment.  I was  instantly 
hailed  with  tiie  most  cordial  welcome ; the  hearth  was 
cleared,  the  old  woman’s  seat  forced  on  me,  eggs  and  po 
tatoes  roasted,  and  an  apology  for  the  deficiency  of  bread 
politely  made,  while  the  manners  of  my  hostesses  betrayed 
a courtesy  that  almost  amounted  to  adulation.  They  had 
all  laid  by  their  work  on  my  entrance,  and  when  I request- 
ed 1 might  not  interrupt  their  avocations,  one  of  them  re- 
plied “ I hope  we  know  better — we  can  work  any  day, 
but  we  cannot  any  day  have  such  a body  as  you  under  our 
roof.”  Surely  this  was  not  the  manners  of  a cabin  but  a 
court. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


3^ 


merrily  round  in  exact  time  with  their  song,  and 
so  intently  were  they  engaged  by  both,  that  my 
proximity  was  unperceived.  At  last  the  song 
ceased — the  wheel  stood  still — and  every  eye 
was  fixed  on  the  oldpnmwm  mohile  of  the  circle, 
who,  after  a short  pause,  began  a solo  that  gave 
much  satisfaction  to  her  young  auditors,  and/taking 
up  the  strain,  they  again  turned  their  wheels 
round  in  unison. — The  whole  was  sung  in  Irish 
and  as  soon  as  I was  observed,  suddenly  ceased ; 
the  girls  looked  down  and  tittered — and  the  old 
woman  addressed  me  sans  ceremonie^  and  in  a 
language  I now  heard  for  the  first  time. 

Supposing  that  some  one  among  the  number 
must  understand  English,  I explained  with  all 
possible  politeness  the  cause  of  my  intrusion  on 
this  little  harmonic  society.  The  old  woman 
looked  up  in  my  face  and  shook  her  head ; 1 
thought  contemptuously — while  the  young  ones, 
stifling  their  smiles,  exchanged  looks  of  compas- 
sion doubtlessly  at  my  ignorance  of  their  lan- 
guage. 

“ So  many  languages  a man  knows,”  said 
Charles  V.,  “ so  many  times  is  he  a man,”  and  it 
is  certain  I never  felt  myself  less  invested  with 
the  dignity  of  one,  th^n  while  I stood  twirling 
my  stick,  and  “ biding  the  encounter  of  the  eyes,” 
and  smiles  of  these  “ spinners  in  the  sun.”  Here 
you  will  say  was  prejudice  opposed  to  prejudice 
with  a vengeance ; but  I comforted  myself  with 
the  idea  that  the  natives  of  Greenland,  the  mosi 


3<>  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

gross  and  savage  of  mortals,  compliment  n 
stranger  by  saying,  “ he  is  as  well  bred  as  9 
Greenlander.” 

While  thus  situated,  a sturdy  looking  young 
fellow  with  that  figure  and  openness  of  counte* 
nance  so  peculiar  to  the  young  Irish  peasants,  and 
with  his  hose  and  brogues  suspended  from  a stick 
over  his  shoulder,  approached  and  hailed  the  par- 
ty in  Irish  : the  girls  instantly  pointed  his  atten- 
tion towards  me;  he  courteously  accosted  me  in 
English,  and  having  learnt  the  nature  of  my  di- 
lemma, offered  to  be  my  guide — “ it  will  not  take 
me  above  a mile  out  of  my  way,  and  if  it  did 
two,  it  would  make  no  odds,^'  said  he.  I accepted 
his  offer,  and  we  proceeded  together  over  the 
summit  of  the  mountain. 

In  the  course  of  our  conversation  (which  was 
very  fluently  supported  on  his  side,)  I learnt,  that 
few  strangers  ever  passing  through  this  remote 
part  of  the  province,  and  even  very  many  of  the 
gentry  here  speaking  Irish,  it  was  a rare  thing  to 
meet  with  any  one  wholly  unacquainted  with  the 
language,  which  accounted  for  the  surprise,  and  I 
believe  contempt,  my  ignorance  had  excited. 

When  I enquired  into  the  nature  of  those 
choral  strains  I had  heard,  he  replied — “ 0 ! as 
to  that,  it  is  according  to  the  old  woman’s  fancy 
and  in  fact  I learnt  that  Ireland,  like  Italy,  has  its 
improvisatores,  and  that  those  who  are  gifted  with 
the  impromptu  talent  are  highly  estimated  by  theii 
rustic  compatriots  ; and  by  what  he  added,  I dis- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


37 


covered  that  their  inspirations  are  either  drawn 
from  the  circumstances  of  the  moment,  from  one 
striking  excellence  or  palpable  defect  in  some  of 
the  company  present,  or  from  some  humourous 
incident,  or  local  event  generally  known. 

As  soon  as  we  arrived  at  the  little  auherge  of 
the  little  village,  I ordered  my  courteous  guide  his 
breakfast,  and  having  done  all  due  honour  to  my 
own,  we  parted. 

My  route  from  the  village  to  Bally- lay  part- 

ly through  a desolate  bog,  whose  burning  surface, 
heated  by  a vertical  sun,  gave  me  no  inadequate 
idea  of  Arabia  Deserta;  and  the  pangs  of  an 
acute  headache,  brought  on  by  exercise  more 
violent  than  my  still  delicate  constitution  was 
equal  to  support,  determined  me  to  defer  my  jour- 
ney until  the  meridian  ardours  were  abated ; and 
taking  your  Horace  from  my  pocket,  I wandered 
into  a shady  path,  “ impervious  to  the  noontide 
ray.”  Throwing  my  “ listless  length”  at  the  foot 
of  a spreading  beech,  I had  already  got  to  that 
sweet  ode  to  Lydia,  which  Scaliger  in  his  enthu- 
siasm declares  he  would  rather  have  written  than 
to  have  possessed  the  monarchy  of  Naples,  when 
somebody  accosted  me  in  Irish,  and  then  with  a; 

God  save  you,  Sir!”  I raised  my  eyes,  and 
beheld  a poor  peasant,  driving,  or  rather  solicit- 
ing, a sorry  lame  cow  to  proceed. 

“ May  be,”  said  he,  taking  off  his  hat,  “ your 
Honour  would  be  after  telling  me  what’s  the 
hour  ?”  ‘ Later  than  I supposed,  my  good  friend,” 

4 


38 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


replied  I,  rising,  “ it  is  past  two.”  He  bowed  low, 
and  stroking  the  face  of  his  companion,  added, 

“ well,  the  day  is  yet  young,  but  you  and  I hav^e 
a long  journey  before  us,  my  poor  Driminduath.” 

“ And  how  far  are  you  going,  my  friend  ?” 

“ Please  your  Honour,  two  miles  beyond  Bal- 
ly  ” 

“It  is  my  road  exactly,  and  you,  Driminduath, 
and  I,  may  perform  the  Journey  together.”  The 
poor  fellow  seemed  touched  and  surprised  by  my 
condescension,  and  profoundly  bowed  his  sense 
of  it,  while  the  curious  triumviri  set  off  on  their 
pedestrian  tour  together. 

I now  cast  an  eye  over  the  person  of  my 
compagnon  de  voyage.  It  was  a tall,  thin,  athletic 
figure,  “ bony  and  gaunt,”  with  an  expressive 
countenance,  marked  features,  a livid  complexion, 
and  a quantity  of  coarse  black  hair  hanging  about 
the  face  ; the  drapery  was  perfectly  appropriate 
to  the  wearer — an  under  garment  composed  of  ' 
“ shreds  and  patches,''*  was  partially  covered  with 
an  old  great  coat  of  coarse  frieze,  fastened  on  the 
breast  with  a large  wooden  skewer,  the  sleeves 
hanging  down  on  either  side  unoccupied,*  and  a 
pair  of  yarn  hose  which  scarcely  reached  mid-- 
leg,  left  the  ankle  and  foot  naked. 

Driminduath  seemed  to  share  in  the  obvious 

* This  manner  of  wearing  the  coat,  so  genera,  amonc 
the  peasantry,  is  deemed  by  the  natives  of  the  county  o? 
Galway  a remnant  of  the  Spanish  mode. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


39 


poverty  of  her  master — she  was  almost  an  anato- 
my, and  scarcely  able  to  crawl.  “ Poor  beast 
said  he,  observing  I looked  at  her,  ‘‘  Poor  beast* 
little  she  dreamed  of  coming  back  the  road  she 
went,  and  little  able  is  she  to  go  it,  poor  soul ; 
not  that  I am  overly  sorry  I could  not  get  nobody 
to  take  her  off  my  hands  at  all  at  all ; though  to- 
be-sure  ’tis  better  to  lose  one’s  cow  than  one’® 
wife,  any  day  in  the  year.” 

“ And  had  you  no  alternative  ?”  I asked. 

“ Anan !”  exclaimed  he,  starting. 

“ Were  you  obliged  to  part  with  one  or  the 
other?”  Sorrow  is  garrulous,  and  in  the  natural 
selfishness  of  its  suffering,  seeks  to  lessen  the 
weight  of  its  woe  by  participation.  In  a few 
minutes  I was  master  of  Murtoch  O’Shaughnas- 
sey’s  story  :*  he  was  the  husband  of  a sick  wife 
the  father  of  six  children,  and  a labourer,  or  cot- 
ter^ who  worked  daily  throughout  the  year  for 
the  hut  that  sheltered  the  heads,  and  the  little 
potatoe  rick  which  was  the  sole  subsistence  of 
his  family.  He  had  taken  a few  acres  of  ground,, 
he  said,  from  his  employer’s  steward,  to  set  gras® 
potatoes  in,  by  which  he  hoped  to  make  some- 
thing handsome  ; that  to  enable  himself  to  pay  for 
them  he  had  gone  to  work  in  Leinster  during  the 
last  harvest,  “ where,  please  your  Honour,”  he 
added,  “ a poor  man  gets  more  for  his  labour 

mug 

♦ Neither  the  rencontre  with,  nor  the  character  or  fitor5» 
of  Murtoch,  partakes  in  the  least  degree  of  fiction. 


40 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


than  in  Connaught;*  but  there  it  was  my  luck 
(and  bad  luck  it  was)  to  get  the  shaking  fever 
upon  me,  so  that  I returned  sick  and  sore  to  my 
poor  people  without  a cross  to  bless  myself  with, 
and  then  there  was  an  end  to  my  fine  grass  pota- 
toes, for  devil  receive  the  sort  they’d  let  me  dig 
till  I paid  for  the  ground;  and  what  was  worse, 
the  steward  was  going  to  turn  us  out  of  our  cabin, 
because  I had  not  worked  out  the  rent  with  him 
as  usual,  and  not  a potatoe  had  I for  the  children  ; 
besides  finding  my  wife  and  two  boys  in  a fever: 
the  boys  got  well,  but  my  poor  wife  has  been  de- 
caying away  ever  since  ; so  I was  fain  to  sell  my 


* It  is  well  known  that  within  these  last  thirty  years  the 
Connaught  peasant  laboured  for  three  pence  a day  and  two 
meals  of  potatoes  and  milk,  and  four  pence  when  he  main- 
tained himself;  while  in  Leinster  the  harvest  hire  rose  from 
eight  pence  to  a shilling.  Riding  out  one  day  near  the  vil- 
lage of  Castletown  Delvin,  in  Westmeath,  in  company 
with  the  younger  branches  of  the  respectable  family  of 

the  F ns,  of  that  county,  we  observed  two  young  men 

lying  ata  little  distance  from  each  other  in  adry  ditch,  with 
some  lighted  turf  burning  near  them;  they  both  seemed  on 
the  verge  of  eternity,  and  we  learned  from  a peasant  who 
was  passing,  that  they  were  Connaught  men  who  had  come 
to  Leinster  to  work;  that  they  had  been  disappointed,  and 
owing  to  want  and  fatigue,  had  been  first  attacked  with  ague 
and  then  with  fevers  of  so  fatal  a nature,  that  no  one  would 
suffer  them  to  remain  in  their  cabins:  owing  to  the  benev- 
olent exertions  of  my  young  friends,  we  however  found  an 
asylum  for  these  unfortunates,  and  had  the  happiness  of 
seeing  them  return  contparatively  well  and  happy  to  their 
native  province-. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


41 


poor  Driminduath  here,  which  was  left  me  by 
my  gossip,  in  order  to  pay  my  rent  and  get  some 
nourishment  for  my  poor  woman,  who  I believe 
is  just  weak  at  heart  for  the  want  of  it ; and  so,  as 
I was  after  telling  your  Honour,  I left  home  yes- 
terday for  a fair  twenty-five  good  miles  off,  but 
my  poor  Driminduath  has  got  such  bad  usage  of 
late,  and  was  in  such  sad  plight,  that  nobody 
would  bid  nothing  for  her,  and  so  we  are  both 
returning  home  as  we  went,  with  full  hearts  and 
empty  stomachs.” 

' This  was  uttered  with  an  air  of  despondency 
that  touched  my  very  soul,  and  I involuntarily 
presented  him  some  sea  biscuit  I had  in  my 
pocket.  He  thanked  me,  and  carelessly  added, 
“ that  it  was  the  first  morsel  he  had  tasted  for 
twenty-four  hours  ;*  not,”  said  he,  “ but  I can  fast 
with  any  one,  and  well  it  is  for  me  I can.”  He 
continued  brushing  an  intrusive  tear  from  his  eye ; 
and  the  next  moment  whistling  a lively  air,  he 
advanced  to  his  cow,  talking  to  her  in  Irish,  in  a 
soothing  tone,  and  presenting  her  with  such  wild 
flowers  and  blades  of  grass  as  the  scanty  vegeta- 

♦ The  temperance  of  an  Irish  peasant  in  this  respect  is 
almost  incredible ; many  of  them  are  satisfied  with  cne 
meal  a day — none  of  them  exceed  two — breakfast  and 
supper;  which  invariably  consists  of  potatoes,  sometimes 
with,  sometimes  without  milk.  One  of  the  rules  observed 
by  the  Finian  Band,  an  ancient  militia  of  Ireland,  was  to 
eat  but  once  in  the  twenty-four  hours. — Sen  Keating^s 
History  of  Ireland. 


4* 


42 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


tion  of  the  bog  afforded,  turned  round  to  me  with 
a smile  of  self-satisfaction  and  said,  “ One  can 
better  suffer  themselves  a thousand  times  over, 
than  see  one’s  poor  dumb  beast  want : it  is  next, 
please  your  Honour,  to  seeing  one’s  child  in  want 
— God  help  him  who  has  witnessed  both  !” 

“ And  art  thou  then  (I  mentally  exclaimed)  that 
intemperate,  cruel,  idle  savage,  an  Irish  peasant  ? 
with  a heart  thus  tenderly  alive  to  the  finest 
feelings  of  humanity ; patiently  labouring  with 
daily  exertion  for  what  can  scarcely  afford  thee  a 
bare  subsistence ; sustaining  the  unsatisfied  wants 
of  nature  without  a murmur  ; nurtured  in  the  hope 
(the  disappointed  hope)  of  procuring  nourishment 
for  her^  dearer  to  thee  than  thyself,  tender  of  thy 
animal  as  thy  child,  and  suffering  the  conscious- 
ness of  their  wants  to  absorb  all  consideration 
of  thy  own;  and  resignation  smooths  the  furrow 
which  affliction  has  traced  upon  thy  brow,  and  the 
national  exility  of  thy  character  cheers  and  sup- 
ports the  natural  susceptibility  of  thy  heart.”  In 
fact,  he  was  at  this  moment  humming  an  Irish 
song  by  my  side. 

I need  not  tell  you  that  the  first  village  we  ar- 
rived at,  I furnished  him  with  the  means  of  pro- 
curing him  a comfortable  dinner  for  himself  and 
Driminduath,  and  advice  and  medicine  from  fhe 
i^llage  apothecary  for  his  wife.  Poor  fellow ! nis 
surprise  and  gratitude  was  expressed  in  the  true 
hyperbola  of  Irish  emotion. 

Meantime  I walked  on  to  examine  the  ruins  of 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


43 


tn  abbey,  where  in  about  half  an  hour  I was 
joined  by  Murtoch  and  his  patient  companion, 
whom  he  assured  me  he  had  regaled  with  some 
hay,  as  he  had  himself  with  a glass  of  whisky. — 
What  a dinner  for  a famishing  man! 

“ It  is  a dreadful  habit,  Murtoch,  ’ said  I. 

“ It  is  so,  please  your  Honour,”  replied  he, 
‘ but  then  it  is  meat,  drink,  and  clothes  to  us,  for 
we  forget  we  have  but  little  of  one  and  less  of 
the  other,  when  we  get  the  drop  within  us ; Och, 
long  life  to  them  that  lightened  the  tax  on  the 
whiskey,  for  by  my  safe  conscience,  if  they  had 
left  it  on  another  year  we  should  have  forgotten 
how  to  drink  it.” 

I shall  make  no  comment  on  Murtoch’s  uncon- 
scious phillippic  against  the  legislature,  but  surely 
a government  has  little  right  to  complain  of  those 
popular  disorders  to  which  in  a certain  degree  it 
may  be  deemed  accessory,  by  removing  the 
strongest  barrier  that  confines  within  moral  bounds 
the  turbulent  passions  of  the  lower  orders- of  so- 
ciety. 

To  my  astonishment,  I found  that  Murtoch  had 
only  purchased  for  his  sick  wife  a little  wine  and 
a small  piece  of  bacon:*  both,  he  assured  me, 
were  universal  and  sovereign  remedies,  and  bet- 
ter than  any  thing  the  phisicianers  could  pre- 

ua 

♦ It  is  common  to  see  them  come  to  gentlemen’s  houses 
with  a little  vial  bottle  to  beg  a table  spoonful  of  wine  (fof 
i sicK  relative,)  which  they  esteem  the  elixir  of  life. 


44 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


scribe,  to  keep  the  disorder  from  the  heart.^  The 
spirits  of  Murtoch  were  now  quite  afloat,  and 
during  the  rest  of  our  journey  the  vehemence, 
pliancy,  and  ardour  of  the  Irish  character  strong- 
ly betrayed  itself  in  the  manners  of  this  poor  un- 
modified Irishman ; while  the  natural  facetious- 
ness of  a temperament  “ complexionably  pleas- 
ant,” was  frequently  succeeded  by  such  heart- 
rending accounts  of  poverty  and  distress,  as  shed 
involuntary  tears  on  those  cheeks  which  but  a 
moment  before  were  distended  by  the  exertions 
of  a boisterous  laugh. 

Nothing  could  be  more  wildly  sweet  than  the 
whistle  or  song  of  the  ploughman  or  labourer  as 
we  passed  along;  it  was  of  so  singular  a nature, 
that  I frequently  paused  to  catch  it ; it  is  a species 
of  voluntary  recitative,  and  so  melancholy,  that 
every  plaintive  note  breathes  on  the  heart  of  the 
auditor  a tale  of  hopeless  despondency  or  incura- 
ble wo.e.  By  heavens  ! I could  have  wept  as  I 
listened,  and  found  a luxury  in  tears. t 

The  evening  was  closing  in  fast,  and  we  were 

♦ To  be  able  to  keep  any  disorder  from  the  heart,  is 
supposed,  (by  the  lower  orders  of  the  Irish,)  to  be  the 
secret  of  longevity. 

t Mr.  Walker,  in  his  Historical  Memoir  of  the  Irish 
Bards,  has  given  a specimen  of  the  Irish  plough-tune;  and 
adds,  “ While  the  Irish  ploughman  drives  his  team,  and 
the  female  peasant  milks  her  cow,  they  warble  a succes- 
sion of  wild  notes  which  bids  defiance  to  the  rules  of  com- 
position, yet  are  inexpressibly  sweet.** 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


45 


within  a miie  of  Bally , when,  to  a day  singu- 

larly fine,  succeeded  one  of  the  most  violent 
storms  of  rain  and  wind  I had  ever  witnessed. 
Murtoch,  who  seemed  only  to  regard  it  on  my  ac- 
count, insisted  on  throwing  his  great  coat  over 
me,  and  pointed  to  a cabin  at  a little  distance, 
where,  he  said,  if  my  Honour  would  demean 
myself  so  far,  I could  get  good  shelter  for  the 
night.” 

“ Are  you  sure  of  that,  Murtoch  ?”  said  I. 

Murtoch  shook  his  head,  and  looking  full  in 
my  face,  said  something  in  Irish ; which  at  my 
request  he  translated — the  words  were — “ Hap- 
py are  they  whose  roof  shelters  the  head  of  the 
traveller. 

“ And  is  it  indeed  a source  of  happiness  to 
you,  Murtoch?” 

Murtoch  endeavoured  to  convince  me  it  was^ 
even  upon  a selfish  principle : “For  (said  he)  it 
is  thought  right  lucky  to  have  a stranger  sleep 
beneath  one’s  roof.” 

If  superstition  was  ever  thus  on  the  side  of 
benevolence,  even  reason  herself  would  hesitate 
to  depose  her.  We  had  now  reached  the  door 
of  the  cabin,  which  Murtoch  opened  without 
ceremony,  saying  as  he  entered — “ May  God  and 
the  Virgin  Mary  pour  a blessing  on  this  house  !” 
The  family,  who  were  all  circled  round  a fine 
turf  fire  that  blazed  on  the  earthen  hearth,  replied, 
“ Come  in,  and  a thousand  welcomes” — for  Mur- 
toch served  as  interpreter,  ard  translated  as  they 


46 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


were  spoken  these  warm  effusions  of  Irish  cor 
diaJity.  The  master  of  the  house,  a venerable 
old  man,  perceiving  me,  made  a low  bow,  and 
added,  “ You  are  welcome,  and  ten  thousand 
welcomes,  gentleman.^^* 

So  you  see  I hold  my  letter  patent  of  nobility 
in  my  c’oimteiiance,  for  I had_not  yet  divested 
myself  of  Murtoch’s  costume — while  in  the  act, 
the  best  stool  was  wiped  for  me,  the  best  seat 
at  the  fire  forced  on  me,  and  on  being  admitted 
into  the  social  circle,  1 found  its  central  point 
was  a round  oaken  stool  heaped  with  smoking 
potatoes  thrown  promiscuously  over  it. 

To  partake  of  this  national  diet  I was  strongly 
and  courteously  solicited,  while  as  an  incentive 
to  an  appetite  that  needed  none,  the  old  dame 
produced  what  she  called  a madder  of  sweet 
milk,  in  contradistinction  to  the  sour  milk  of 
which  the  rest  partook ; while  the  cow  that  sup 
plied  the  luxury  slumbered  most  amicably  with  a 
large  pig  at  no  great  distance  from  where  I sat, 
and  Murtoch  glancing  an  eye  at  hothy  and  then 

♦ Fallte  avgus  cead  ro  ag  duine  uasal'*  The  term  gentle- 
man, liovvever,  is  a very  inadequate  version  of  the  Irish 
uasal,  which  is  an  epitlhet  of  superiority  that  indicatea 
more  than  mere  gentility  of  birth  can  bestow,  although  that 
requisite  is  also  included.  In  a curious  dialogue  between 
Ossian  and  St.  Patrick,  in  an  old  Irish  poem,  in  which  the 
former  relates  the  combat  between  Oscar  and  Ulan,  St. 
Patrick  solicits  him  to  the  detail,  addressing  him  as  “ Osffian 
uasal,  a mhic  Fionne,*^  Ossian  tlie  Noblo-^  tlie  son  of  Fin 
|al.” 


THE  WILD  IRIISH  GIRL 


47 


looking  at  me,  seemed  to  say,  “ You  see  into 
wnat  snug  quarters  we  have  got.”  While  I (as 
I sat  with  my  damp  clothes  smoking  by  the  turf 
fire,  my  madder  of  milk  in  one  hand,  and  hot 
potatoe  in  the  other)  assured  him  by  a responsi- 
ble glance,  that  I was  fully  sensible  of  the  com- 
forts of  our  situation. 

As  soon  as  supper  was  finished  the  old  man 
said  grace,  the  family  piously  blessed  themselves, 
and  the  stool  being  removed,  the  hearth  swept, 
and  the  fire  replenished  from  the  bog,  Murtoch 
threw  himself  on  his  back  along  a bench,*  and 
unasked  began  a song,  the  wild  and  plaintive 
melody  of  which  went  at  once  to  the  soul. 

When  he  had  concluded,  I was  told  it  was  the 
lamentation  of  the  poor  Irish  for  the  loss  of  their 
glibhs  or  long  tresses,  of  which  they  were  deprived 
by  the  arbitrary  will  of  Henry  VIII. — The  song 
(composed  in  his  reign)  is  called  the  Caulir^ 
which  I am  told  is  literally,  the  fair  ringlet. 

When  the  English  had  drawn  a pale  round 
their  conquests  in  this  country,  such  of  the  in- 
habitants as  were  compelled  to  drag  on  their  ex- 
istence beyond  the  barrier,  could  no  longer  afford 

* This  curious  vocal  position  is  of  very  ancient  origin 
in  Connaught,  though  by  no  means  prevalent  Formerly 
the  songster  not  only  lay  on  his  back,  but  had  a weight 
pressed  on  his  chest.  The  aut‘hor’s  father  recollects  having 
seen  a man  in  the  county  of  Mayo,  of  the  name  of  O'Mel* 
vill,  who  sung  for  him  in  this  position  some  years  back. 

fThe  Cualin  is  one  of  the  most  popular  and  beautiful 
Irish  airs  extant. 


48 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


to  cover  their  heads  with  metal,  and  were  nece« 
sitated  to  rely  on  the  resistance  of  their  matted 
locks.  At  length  this  necessity  became  “the 
fashion  of  their  choice.” 

, The  partiality  of  the  ancient  Irish  to  long  hair 
is  still  to  be  traced  in  their  descendants  of  both 
sexes,  the  women  in  particular ; for  I observed 
that  the  young  ones  only  wore  their  “ native  or- 
nament of  which  sometimes  flows  over 

their  shoulders,  sometimes  is  fastened  up  in 
tresses,  with  a pin  or  bodkin.  A fashion  more  in 
unison  with  grace  and  nature,  though  less  in 
point  of  formal  neatness,  than  the  round-eared 
caps  and  large  hats  of  our  rustic  fair  of  England. 

Almost  every  word  of  Murtoch’s  lamentation 
was  accompanied  by  the  sighs  and  mournful 
lamentations  of  his  auditors,  who  seemed  to  sym- 
pathize as  tenderly  in  the  sufferings  of  their 
progenitors,  as  though  they  had  themselves  been 
the  victims  of  the  tyranny  which  had  caused 
them.  The  arch  policy  of  “ the  ruthless  king,” 
who  destroyed  at  once  the  records  of  a nation’s 
woes,  by  extirpating  “ the  tuneful  race,”  whose 
art  would  have  perpetuated  them  to  posterity, 
never  appeared  to  me  in  greater  force  than  at  that 
moment. 

In  the  midst,  however,  of  the  melancholy 
which  involved  the  mourning  auditors  of  Mur- 
toch,  a piper  entered  and  seated  himself  by  the 
fire,  sans  facon,  drew  his  pipes  from  under  his 
coat,  and  struck  up  an  Irish  lilt  of  such  inspiring 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


49 


animation,  as  might  have  served  St.  Basil  of 
Limoges,  the  merry  patron  of  dancing,  for  a ju- 
bilate.. , 

In  a moment,  in  the  true  pliability  of  Irish 
temperament,  the  whole  pensive  group  cheered 
up,  flung  away  their  stools,  and  as  if  bit  to  merry 
madness  by  a tarantula,  set  to  dancing  jigs  with 
all  their  hearts,  and  all  their  strength  into  the 
bargain.  Murtoch  appeared  not  less  skilled  in 
the  dance  than  song;  and  every  one  (according 
to  the  just  description  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  a 
native  of  this  province,)  seemed 

To  seek  renown, 

By  holding  out  to  tire  each  other  down.*' 

Although  much  amused  by  this  noveFstyle  of 
devotion  at  the  shrine  of  Terpsichore,  yet  as  the 
night  was  now  calm,  and  an  unclouded  moon 
dispersed  the  gloom  of  twilight  obscurity,  I arose 
to  pursue  my  journey.  Murtoch  would  accom- 
pany me,  though  our  hospitable  friends  did  their 
utmost  to  prevail  on  both  to  remain  for  the  night. 

When  I insisted  on  my  host  receiving  a trifle, 
I observed  poverty  struggling  with  pride,  and 
gratitude  superior  to  both : he  at  last  reluctantly 
consented  to  be  prevailed  on,  by  my  assurance 
of  forgetting  to  call  on  them  again  when  I passed 
that  way,  if  I were  now  denied.  I was  follow-^ 
ed  for  several  paces  by  the  whole  family,  whQ0 
parted  with^  as  they  received  me,  with  blessings  ^ 
D 5 


50 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


— for  their  courtesy  upon  all  occasions,  sueiufi 
interwoven  with  their  religion,  and  not  to  be  pious 
in  their  forms  of  etiquette,  is  not  to  be  polite. 

Benevolent  and  generous  beings  ! whose  hard 
labour 

**  Just  gives  what  life  requires,  but  gives  no  more,” 

yet  who,  with  the  ever  ready  smile  of  heart-felt 
welcome,  are  willing  to  share  that  hard  earned 
little,  with  the  weary  traveller  whom  chance  con- 
ducts to  your  threshold,  or  the  solitary  wanderer 
whom  necessity  throws  upon  your  bounty.  How 
did  my  heart  smite  me,  while  I received  the  cor- 
dial rites  of  hospitality  from  your  hands,  for  the 
prejudices  I had  hitherto  nurtured  against  youi 
characters.  But  your  smiling  welcome,  and  part- 
ing benediction,  retributed  my  error — in  the  feel- 
ing of  remorse  they  awakened. 

It  was  late  when  I reached  Bally , a large, 

ugly,  irregular  town,  near'the  sea  coast ; but  for- 
tunately meeting  with  a chaise,  I threw  myself 
into  it,  gave  Murtoch  my  address,  (who  was  all 
amazement  at  discovering  I was  son  to  the  Lord 
of  the  Manor,)  and  arrived  without  further  ad- 
venture at  this  antique  chateau,  more  gratified  by 
■the  result  of  my  little  pedestrian  tour,  than  if  (at 
'least  in  the  present  state  of  my  feelings,)  I had 
iperformed  it  Sesostris-like,  in  a triumphal  chariot, 
.drawn  by  kings  ; for  “ so  weary,  stale,  flat,  and 
‘Unprofitable,”  appear  to  me  the  tasteless  pleasures 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


51 


of  the  world  I have  left,  that  every  sense,  e%ery 
feeling,  is  in  a state  of  revolt  against  its  sicken- 
ing  joys,  and  their  concomitant  sufferings. 

Adieu ! I am  sending  this  off  by  a courier  ex- 
traordinary, to  the  next  post-town,  in  the  hope  of 
receiving  one  from  you  by  the  same  hand. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  III. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I PERCEIVE  my  father  emulates  the  policy  of 
the  British  Legislature,  and  delegates  English 
ministers  to  govern  his  Irish  domains.  Who  do 
you  think  is  his  fac  totum  here  ? The  rascally 
son  of  his  cunning  Leicestershire  steward,  who 
unites  all  his  father’s  artifice  to  a proportionable 
share  of  roguery  of  his  own,  I have  had  some 
reason  to  know  the  fellow  ; but  his  servility  of 
manner,  and  apparent  rigid  discharge  of  his  du- 
ties, has  imposed  on  my  father ; who,  with  all 
his  superior  mind,  is  to  be  imposed  on,  by  those 
who  know  how  to  find  out  the  clew  to  his  falli- 
bility : his  noble  soul  can  never  stoop  to  dive  into 
the  minute  vices  of  a rascal  of  this  description. 

Mr.  Clendinning  was  absent  from  M house 

when  I arrived,  but  attended  me  the  next  mom 
ing  at  breakfast,  with  that  fawning  civility  of 


52 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


manner  I abhor,  and  which,  contrasted  with  the 
manly  courteousness  of  my  late  companion,  never 
appeared  more  grossly  obvious.  He  endeavour- 
ed to  amuse  me  with  a detail  of  the  ferocity, 
cruelty,  and  uncivilized  state  of  those  among 
whom  (as  he  hinted,)  I was  banished  for  my 
sins.  He  had  now,  he  said,  been  near  five  years 
among  them,  and  had  never  met  an  individual  of 
the  lower  order,  who  did  not  deserve  a halter  at 
least : for  his  part,  he  had  kept  a tight  hand  over 
them,  and  he  was  justified  in  so  doing,  or  his 
Lord  would  be  the  sufferer ; for  few  of  them 
would  pay  their  rents  till  their  cattle  were  driven, 
or  some  such  measure  was  taken  with  them. 
And  as  for  the  labourers  and  workmen,  a slave- 
drive-r  was  the  only  man  fit  to  deal  with  them ; 
they  were  all  rebellious,  idle,  cruel,  and  treacher- 
ous ; and  for  his  part,  he  never  expected  to  leave 
the  country  with  his  life. 

It  is  not  possible  a better  defence  for  the  im- 
puted turbulence  of  the  Irish  peasantry  could  be 
made,  than  that  which  lurked  in  the  unprovoked 
accusations  of  this  narrow-minded  sordid  steward, 
who,  it  is  evident,  wished  to  forestall  the  com- 
plaints of  those  on  whom  he  had  exercised  the 
native  tyranny  of  his  disposition  (even  according 
to  his  own  account,)  by  every  species  of  harras- 
sing  oppression  within  the  compass  of  his  ability. 
For  if  power  is  a dangerous  gift  even  in  the  re* 
gulalcd  mind  of  elevated  rank,  what  does  it  be 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


53 


come  in  the  delegated  authority  of  ignorance, 
meanness,  and  illiberality 

My  father,  however,  by  frequent  visitations  to 
his  Irish  estates  (within  these  few  years  at  least,) 
must  afford  to  his  suffering  tenantry  an  opportu- 
nity of  redress  ; for  who  that  ever  approached 
him  with  a tear  of  suffering,  but  left  his  presence 
with  a tear  of  gratitude ! But  many,  very  many 
of  the  English  nobility  who  hold  immense  tracts 
of  land  in  this  country,  and  draw  from  hence  in 
part  the  suppliance  of  their  luxuries,  have  never 
visited  their  estates,  since  conquest  first  put  them 
in  the  possession  of  their  ancestors.  Ours,  you 
know,  fell  to  us  in  the  Cromwellian  wars,  but 

since  the  time  of  General  M , who  earned 

them  by  the  sword,  my  father,  his  lineal  de- 
scendant, is  the  first  of  the  family  who  ever  visit- 
ed them.  And  certainly,  a wish  to  conciliate  the 
affections  of  his  tenantry,  could  alone  induce 
him  to  spend  so  much  of  his  time  here  as  he  has 
done ; for  the  situation  of  this  place  is  bleak  and 
solitary,  and  the  old  mansion,  like  the  old  manor 

* A horde  of  tyrants  exist  in  Ireland,  in  a class  of  men 
Uiat  are  unknown  in  England,  in  the  multitude  of  agents 
of  absentees,  small  proprietors,  who  are  the  pure  Irish 
squires,  middle  men,  who  take  large  farms,  and  squeeze 
out  a forced  kind  of  profit  by  letting  them  in  small  par- 
cels; lastly,  the  little  farmers  themselves,  who  exercise  the 
same  insolence  they  receive  from  their  superiors,  on  those 
unfortunate  beings  who  are  placed  at  the  extremity  of  the 
scale  of  degradation — the  Irish  peasantry. — ^An  Enquiry 
into  the  Causes  of  Popular  Discontents  in  Ireland. 

5* 


M 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


houses  ol’  England,  has  neither  the  architectural 
character  of  an  antique  structure,  nor  the  accoin- 
modation  of  a modern  one. 

“ Ayant  Vair  delahri^  sans  Vair  antique.^'* 

On  enquiring  for  the  key  of  the  library,  Mr. 
Clendinning  informed  me  his  lord  always  took  it 
with  him,  but  that  a box  of  books  had  come  from 
England  a few  days  before  my  arrival. 

As  I suspected,  they  were  all  law  books — well, 
oe  it  so  ; there  are  few  sufferings  more  acute  than 
those  which  forbid  complaint,  because  they  are 
self-created. 

Four  days  have  elapsed  since  I began  this  let- 
ter, and  I have  been  prevented  from  continuing  it 
merely  for  want  of  something  to  say. 

I cannot  now  sit  down,  as  I once  did,  and  give 
you  a history  of  my  ideas  or  sensations,  in  the 
deficiency  of  fact  or  incident ; for  I have  sur- 
vived my  sensations,  and  my  ideas  are  dry  and 
exhausted. 

I cannot  now  trace  my  joys  to  their  source,  or 
my  sorrows  to  their  spring,  for  I am  destitute  of 
their  present,  and  insensible  to  their  former  exist- 
ence. The  energy  of  youthful  feeling  is  sub- 
dued, and  the  vivacity  of  warm  emotion  worn  out 
by  its  own  violence.  I have  lived  too  fast  in  a 
moral  as  well  as  a physical  sense,  and  the  prin- 
ciples of  my  intellectual,  as  well  as  my  natural 
constitution  are,  I fear,  fast  hastening  to  decay 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


55 


I live  the  tomb  of  my  expiring  mind,  and  pre- 
serve only  the  consciousness  of  my  wretched 
state,  without  the  power,  and  almost  without  the 
wish  to  be  otherwise  than  what  I am.  And  yet, 
God  knows,  I am  nothino^  less  than  contented. 

Would  you  hear  my  journal  ? I rise  late  to 
my  solitary  breakfast,  because  it  is  solitary ; then 
to  study,  or  rather  to  yawn  over  Giles  versus 
Haystack,  until  (to  check  the  creeping  effects  of 
lethargy)  I rise  from  my  reading  desk,  and  lounge 
to  a window,  which  commands  a boundless  view 
of  a boundless  bog ; then,  “ with  what  appetite  I 
may,”  sit  down  to  a joyless  dinner.  Sometimes, 
when  seduced  by  the  blandishments  of  an  even 
ing  singularly  beautiful,  I quit  my  den  and  prowl 
down  to  the  sea  shore  where,  throwing  myself  at 
the  foot  of  some  cliff  that  “ battles  o’er  the 
deep,”  I fix  my  vacant  eye  on  the  stealing  waves 
that 


**  Idly  swell  against  the  rocky  coast, 

And  break — as  break  those  glittering  shadows, 
Human  joys.’* 

I’lien  wet  with  the  ocean  spray  and  evening  dew, 
return  to  my  bed,  merely  to  avoid  the  intrusive 
civilities  of  Mr.  Clendinning.  ••  Thus  wear  the 
hours  away.” 

J had  heard  that  the  neighbourhood  about 

M house  was  good : I can  answer  for  its 

being  populous.  Although  I took  every  precau- 
tion to  prevent  my  arrival  being  known,  yet  the 


56 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


natives  have  come  down  on  me  in  hordes,  and 
this  in  all  the  form  of  haul  ton,  as  the  innumera- 
ble cards  of  the  clans  of  Os  and  Macs  evince.  1 
have,  however,  neither  been  visible  to  the  visi- 
tants, nor  accepted  their  invitations  : for  “ man 
delights  me  not,  nor  woman  either.”  Nor  wo- 
man either ! Oh ! uncertainty  of  all  human  pro- 
pensities ! Yet  so  it  is,  that  every  letter  that 
composes  the  word  woman!  seems  cabalistical, 
and  rouses  every  principle  of  aversion  and  dis- 
gust within  me;  while  I often  ask  myself  with 
Tasso, 

“ Se  pur  ve  nelle  amor  alcun  dileito.” 

It  is  certain,  that  the  diminutive  body  of  our 
worthy  steward,  is  the  abode  of  the  transmigra- 
ted soul  of  some  West  Indian  planter.  I have 
been  engaged  these  two  days  in  listening  to,  and 
retributing  those  injuries  his  tyranny  has  inflicted, 
in  spite  of  his  rage,  eloquence,  and  threats,  none 
of  which  have  been  spared.  The  victims  of  his 
oppression  haunt  me  in  my  walks,  fearful  lest 
their  complaints  should  come  to  the  knowledge 
of  this  puissant  major  domo. 

“ But  why,”  said  I to  one  of  the  suflerers,  af- 
ter a detail  of  seized  geese,  pounded  cows,  extra 
labour  cruelly  extorted,  ejectments,  &c.  Slc. 
given  in  all  the  tedious  circumlocution  of  Irish 
oratory, — “ why  not  complain  to  my  father  when 
he  comes  among  you?” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


57 


“ Hfcaise,  please  your  Honour,  my  I.ordstays 
Dut  a few  days  at  a time  here  together,  nor  that 
game  neither ; besides,  we  be  loth  to  trouble  his 
Lordship,  for  feard  it  would  be  after  coming  to 
Measther  Clendinning’s  ears,  which  would  be  the 
ruination  of  us  all ; and  then  when  my  Lord  is 
at  the  Lodge,  which  he  mostly  is,  he  is  always 
out  amongst  the  quality,  so  he  is.” 

“ What  Lodge  ?”  said  I. 

“ Why,  please  your  Honour,  where  my  Lord 
mostly  takes  up  when  he  comes  here,  the  place 
that  belonged  to  Measther  Clendinning,  who  call 
ed  it  the  Lodge,  becaise  the  good  old  Irish  name 
lhat  was  upon  it  did  not  suit  his  fancy.” 

In  the  evening  I asked  x\lr.  Clendinning  if  my 
father  did  not  sometimes  reside  at  the  I.odge  ? 
He  seemed  surprised  at  my  information,  and  said, 
that  was  the  name  he  had  given  to  a ruinous  old 
place  which,  with  a few  acres  of  indifferent  land, 
he  had  purchased  of  his  hard  labour,  and  which 
his  Lord  having  taken  an  unaccountable  liking  to, 
rented  from  him,  and  was  actually  the  tenant  of 
his^  own  steward. 

O ! what  arms  of  recrimination  I should  be 
furnished  with  against  my  rigidly  moral  father, 
should  I discover  this  remote  Cassino,  (for  remote 
I understand  it  is)  to  be  the  harem  of  some  wild 
Irish  Sultana;  for  L strongly  suspect  “ that  metal 
inore  attractive”  than  the  cause  he  assigns,  in- 
duces him  to  pay  an  annual  visit  to  a country 
to  which,  till  within  these  few  years,  he  nurtured 


56 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


ihe  strongest  prejudices.  You  know  there  ai( 
but  nineteen  years  between  him  and  my  brother; 
and  his  feelings  are  so  unblunted  by  vicious  pur- 
suits, his  life  has  been  guided  by  such  epicurian 
principles  of  enjoyment,  that  he  still  retains 
much  of  the  first  warm  flush  of  juvenile  exist- 
ence, and  has  only  sacrificed  to  time,  its  follies 
and  its  ignorance.  I swear,  at  this  moment  he  is 
a younger  man  than  either  of  his  sons  ; the  one 
chilled  by  the  coldness  of  an  icy  temperament  into 
premature  old  age,  and  the  other  Mj******=»=»* 
Murtochhas  been  to  see  me.  I have  procured 
him  a little  farm,  and  am  answerable  for  the 
rent.  I sent  his  wife  some  rich  wine  ; she  is 
recovering  very  fast.  Murtoch  is  all  gratitude  for 
the  wine,  but  I perceive  his  faith  still  lies  in  the 
bacon ! 


LETTER  IV. 


TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I CAN  support  this  wretched  state  of  non-exist- 
ence, this  articula  mortis^  no  longer.  I cannov 
read — I cannot  think — nothing  touches,  nothing 
interests  me  ; neither  is  it  permitted  me  to  in- 
dulge my  sufferings  in  solitude.  These  hospita- 
ble people  still  weary  me  with  their  attentions, 
Jhough  they  must  consider  me  as  a sullen  misan- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


59 


thropist,  for  I p(  rsist  in  my  invisibility.  I car 
escape  them  no  linger  but  by  flight — profession- 
al study  is  out  of  the  question,  for  a time  at  least. 
I mean,  therefoie,  to  “ take  the  wings  of”  some 
fine  morning,  and  seek  a change  of  being  in  a 
change  of  place. ; for  a perpetual  state  of  evaga- 
tion  alone,  keeps  up  the  flow  and  ebb  of  exist- 
ence in  my  languid  frame.  My  father’s  last  let- 
ter informs  me  he  is  obliged  by  business  to  post- 
pone his  journey  for  a month ; this  leaves  me  so 
much  the  longer  master  of  myself.  By  the  time 
we  meet,  my  mind  may  have  regained  its  na- 
tive tone.  Laval  too,  writes  for  a longer  leave 
of  absence,  which  I most  willingly  grant.  It  is 
a weight  removed  off  my  shoulders  ; 1 would  be 
savagely  free. 

I thank  you  for  your  welcome  letters,  and  will 
do  what  I can  to  satisfy  your  antiquarian  taste  , 
and  I would  take  your  advice  and  study  the  Irish 
language,  were  my  powers  of  comprehension 
equal  to  the  least  of  the  philological  excellences 
of  Tom  Thumb  or  Goody  Two  Shoes, — ^but  alas ! 

Se  perchetto  a me  Stesso  quale  acqiiisto, 

Fsro  mai  che  me  piaccia.”^ 


• Torqnatto  Tasso.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


M 


Villa  di  Marino,  Atlantic  Ocean 

Having  told  Mr.  Clendinning,  that  I should 
spend  a few  days  in  wandering  about  the  country, 
I mounted  my  horse.  So  I determined  to  roam 
free  and  unrestrained  by  the  presence  of  a ser- 
vant, to  Mr.  Clendinning’s  uuer  amazement,  I or- 
dered a few  changes  of  linen,  my  drawing-book, 
and  pocket  escritoire,  to  be  put  in  a small  valice, 
which,  with  all  due  humility,  I had  strapped  on 
the  back  of  my  steed,  whom,  by  the  bye,  I expect 
will  be  as  celebrated  as  the  Rozinante  of  Don 
Quixote,  or  the  Beltenhros  UAmadis  de  Gaul; 
and  thus  accoutred  set  off  on  my -peregrination, 
the  most  listless  knight  that  ever  entered  on  the 
lists  of  errantry. 

You  will  smile,  when  I tell  you  my  first  point 
of  attraction  was  the  Lodge;  to  which  (though 
with  some  difficulty)  I found  my  way ; for  it  lies 
in  a most  wild  and  unfrequented  direction,  but  so 

infinitely  superior  in  situation  to  M house, 

that  I no  longer  wonder  at  my  father’s  prefer- 
ence. Every  feature  that  constitutes  either  the 
beauty  or  sublime  of  landscape,  is  here  finely 
combined.  Groves  druidic  ally  venerable— moun- 
tains of  Alpine  elevation — expansive  lakes,  and 
the  boldest  and  most  romantic  sea-coast  I ever 
beheld,  alternately  diversify  and  enrich  its  scene- 
ry; while  a number  of  young  and  flourishing 
plantations  evince  the  exertion  of  taste  in  ray 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


61 


Catlier,  be  certainly  has  not  betrayed  in  the  dispo- 
sition of  his  hereditary  domains.  I found  this 
Tusculum  inhabited  only  bv  a decent  old  man 
and  his  superannuated  wife.  Without  informing 
them  who  I was,  I made  a feigidng  wish  to  make 
the  place  a pretext  for  visiting  it.  The  old  man 
smiled  at  the  idea,  and  shook  his  head,  presum- 
ing that  I must  be  indeed  a stranger  in  the  coun- 
try, as  my  accent  denoted,  for  that  this  spot  be- 
longed to  a great  English  Lord,  whom  he  verily 
believed  would  not  resign  it  for  his  own  fine  place 
some  miles  off ; but  when,  with  some  Jesuitical 
artifice  I endeavoured  to  trace  the  cause  of  this 
attachment,  he  said  it  was  his  Lordship’s  fancy, 
and  that  there  'was  no  accounting  for  people’s 
fancies. 

“ That  is  all  very  true,”  said  I,  “ but  is  it  the 
house  only  that  seized  on  your  Lord’s  fancy?” 

“Nay,  for  the  matter  of  that,”  said  he,  “the 
lands  are  far  more  finer;  the  house,  though  large, 
being  no  great  things.”  I begged  in  this  instance 
to  judge  for  myself,  and  a few  shillings  procured 
me  not  only  free  egress,  but  the  confidence  of  the 
ancient  Cicerone, 

This  fancied  harem,  however,  I found  not  only 
divested  of  its  expected  fair  inhabitant,  but  whol- 
ly destitute  of  furniture,  except  what  filled  a bed- 
room occupied  by  my  father,  and  an  apartment 
which  was  locked.  The  old  man  with  some  tar- 
diness produced  the  key,  and  I found  this  mys- 
terious chamber  was  only  a study ; but  closer 


62 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


inspection  discovered  that  almost  ah  the  book« 
related  to  the  language,  history,  and  antiquities 
of  Ireland. 

So  you  see,  in  fact,  my  father’s  Sultana  is  no 
other  than  the  Irish  Muse ; and  never  was  son  so 
tempted  to  become  the  rival  of  his  father,  since 
the  days  of  Antiochus  and  Stratonice.  For,  at  a 
moment  when  my  taste,  like  my  senses,  is  flat 
and  palled,  nothing  can  operate  so  strongly  as  an 
incentive,  as  novelty.  I strongly  suspect  that 
my  father  was  aware  of  this,  and  that  he  had 
despoiled  the  temple,  to  prevent  me  becoming  a 
worshipper  at  the  same  shrine.  • For  the  old  man 
said  he  had  received  a letter  from  his  Lord,  or- 
dering away  all  the  furniture  (except  that  of  his 
own  bed-room  and  study)  to  the  manor  house ; 
the  study  and  bed-room,  however,  will  suffice  me, 
and  here  I shall  certainly  pitch  my  head-quarters 
until  my  father’s  arrival. 

I have  already  had  some  occasions  to  remark, 
that  the  warm  susceptible  character  of  the  Irish 
is  open  to  the  least  indication  of  courtesy  and 
kindness. 

My  politesse  to  this  old  man,  opened  every 
sluice  of  confidence  in  his  breast,  and,  as  we 
walked  down  the  avenue  together,  having  thrown 
the  bridle  over  my  horse’s  neck,  and  offered  him 
my  arm,  for  he  was  lame,  I enquired  how  this 

Deautiful  farm  fell  into  the  hands  of  Lord  M •, 

still  concealing  from  him  that  it  was  his  son  who 
demanded  the  question. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRU^ 


6;i 

Why,  your  Honour,”  said  he , “ the  farm, 
though  beautiful  is  small ; however,  it  made  the 
best  part  of  what  remained  of  the  patrimony  of 
the  Prince,  when ” 

“ What  Prince  ?”  interrupted  I,  amazed. 

“ Why,  the  Prince  of  Inismore,  to  be  sure, 
jewel,  whose  great  forefathers  once  owned  the 
half  of  the  barony,  from  the  Red  Bog  to  the  sea- 
coast.  Och ! it  is  a long  story,  but  I heard  my 
grandfather  tell  it  a thousand  times,  how  a great 
Prince  of  Inismore  in  the  wars  of  Queen  Eliza- 
beth, had  here  a castle  and  a great  tract  of  land 
on  the  borders,  of  which  he  was  deprived,  as  the 
story  runs,  becaise  he  would  neither  cut  his 
glibhs,  shave  his  upper  lip,  nor  shorten  his  shirt  f 
and  so  he  was  driven,  with  the  rest  of  us  beyond 
the  pale.  The  family,  however,  after  a while 
flourished  greater  nor  ever.  Och,  and  it  is  them- 
selves that  might,  for  they  were  true  Milesians 
bread  and  born,  every  mother’s  soul  of  them.  O ‘ 
not  a drop  of  Strongbonean  flowed  in  their  Irish 
veins,  agrah  ! Well,  as  I was  after  telling  youi 
Honour,  the  family  flourished,  and  beat  all  before 

♦From  the  earliest  settlement  of  the  English  in  this 
country,  an  inquisitorial  persecution  had  been  carried  on 
against  the  national  costume.  In  the  reign  of  Henry  V. 
there  was  an  act  passed  against  even  the  English  colonists 
wearing  a whisker  on  the  upper  lip,  like  the  Irish ; and  in 
1616,  the  Lord  Deputy,  in  his  instructions  to  the  Lord 
President  and  Council,  directed,  that  such  as  appeared  in 
the  Irish  robes  or  mantles,  should  be  punished  by  fine  and 
mprisonment. 


64 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


them,  for  they  had  an  army  of  galloglasses  at 
their  back.^'imtil  the  Cromwellian  wars  broke  out, 
and  those  same  cold-hearted  Presbyterians,  bat- 
tered the  fine  old  ancient  castle  of  Inismore,  and 
left  in  the  condition  it  now  stands  ; and  what  was 
worse  nor  that,  the  poor  old  Prince  was  put  to 
death  in  the  arms  of  his  fine  young  son,  who  tried 
to  save  him,  and  that  by  one  of  Cromwell’s  Eng- 
lish Generals,  who  received  the  town  lands  of 
Inismore,  which  lie  near  Bally , as  his  re- 

ward. Now  this  English  General  who  murdered 
the  Prince,  was  no  other  than  the  ancestor  of 
my  Lord,  to  whom  these  estates  descended  from 
father  to  son.  Ay,  you  may  well  start.  Sir,  it 
was  a woful  piece  of  business  ; for  of  all  their 
fine  estates,  nothing  was  left  to  the  Princes  of 
Inismore,  but  the  ruins  of  their  old  castle,  and  the 
rocks  that  surround  it;  except  this  tight  little  bit 
of  an  estate  here,  on  which  the  father  of  the 
present  Prince  built  this  house  ; becaise  his  Lady, 
with  whom  he  got  a handsome  fortune,  and  who 
was  descended  from  the  Kings  of  Connaught, 
took  a dislike  to  the  castle  ; the  story  going  that 
it  was  haunted  by  the  murdered  Prince  ; and 
what  with  building  of  this  house,  and  living  like 
an  Irish  Prince,  as  he  w^as  every  inch  of  him, 
and  spending  3000/.  a year  out  of  300/.,  when  he 
died  (and  the  sun  never  shone  on  such  a funeral ; 
the  whiskey  ran  about  like  ditch  water,  and  the 


♦ Tlie  second  order  of  military  in  Ireland. 


THE  W*LD  IRISH  GIRL. 


65 


country  was  stocked  with  pipes  and  tobacco  for 
many  a long  year  after.  For  the  present  Prince, 
his  son,  would  not  be  a bit  behind  his  father  in 
any  thing,  and  so  signs  on  him,  for  he  is  not 
worth  one  guinea  this  ble&sed  day,  Christ  save 
him;) — well,  as  I was  saying,  when  he  died,  he 
left  things  in  a sad  way,  which  his  son  is  not  the 
man  to  mend,  for  he  was  the  spirit  of  a king,  and 
lives  in  as  much  state  as  one  to  this  day.” 

“ But  where,  where  does  he  live  ?”  interrupted 
I,  with  breathless  impatience. 

“ Why,”  continued  this  living  chronicle,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  Irish  replication,  “ he  did  live  there 
in  that  Lodge,  as  they  call  it  now,  and  in  that  room 
where  my  Lord  keeps  his  books,  was  our  young 
Princess  born  ; her  father  never  had  but  her,  and 
loves  her  better  than  his  own  heart’s  blood,  and 
well  he  may,  the  blessing  of  the  Virgin  Mary 
and  the  Twelve  Apostles  light  on  her  sweet  head. 
Well,  the  Prince  would  never  let  it  come  near 
him,  that  things  were  not  going  on  well,  and  con- 
tinued to  take  at  great  rents,  farms  that  brought 
him  in  little  ; for  being  a Prince  and  a Milesian, 
it  did  not  become  him  to  look  after  such  matters, 
and  every  thing  was  left  to  stewards  and  the 
like,  until  things  coming  to  the  worst,  a rich  English 
gentleman,  as  it  was  said,  come  over  here  and 
offered  the  Prince,  through  his  steward,  a good 
round  sum  of  money  on  this  place,  which  the 
Prince,  being  harrassed  by  his  spalpeen  creditors, 
fend  wanting  a little  ready  money  moie  thaF 
E 6* 


66 


THK  WILD  IRISri  GIRL. 


any  other  earthly  thing,  consented  to  receive ; the» 
gentleman  sending  him  word  he  should  have  his 
own  time ; but  scarcely  was  the  mortgage  a year 
old,  when  this  same  Englishman,  (Oh,  my  curse 
lie  about  him,  Christ  pardon  me,)  foreclosed  it, 
and  the  fine  old  Prince  not  havinor  as  much  as  a 

O ^ 

shed  to  shelter  his  gray  hairs  under,  was  forced 
to  fit  up  part  of  the  old  ruined  castle,  and  open 
those  rooms  which  it  had  been  said  were  haunt- 
ed. Discharging  many  of  his  old  servants,  he 
was  accompanied  to  the  castle  by  the  family 
steward,  the  fosterers,  the  nurse  f the  harper,  and 
Father  John,  the  chaplain. 

“ Och,  it  was  a piteous  sight  the  day  he  left 
this:  he  was  leaning  on  the  Lady  Glorvina’s 
arm  as  he  walked  out  to  the  chaise,  ‘ James  Tyral,’ 
says  he  to  me  in  Irish,  for  I caught  his  eye; 
* James  Tyral,’  but  he  could  say  no  more,  for 
the  old  tenants  kept  crying  about  him,  and  he 
put  his  mantle  to  his  eyes  and  hurried  into  the 

♦The  custom  of  retaining  the  nurse  who  reared  the  chil- 
dren, has  ever  been,  and  is  still  in  force  among  the  most 
respectable  families  in  Ireland,  as  it  is  still  in  modern,  and 
was  formerly  in  ancient  Greece,  and  they  are  probably  both 
derived  from  the  same  origin.  We  read,  that  when  Re- 
becca left  her  father’s  house  to  marry  Isaac  at  Beersheba, 
the  nurse  was  sent  to  accompany  her.  But  in  Ireland,  not 
only  the  nurse  herself,  but  her  husband  and  children  are 
objects  of  peculiar  regard  and  attention,  and  are  called  fos- 
^erers.  The  claims  of  these  fosterers  frequently  descend 
from  generation  to  generation,  and  Ihe  tie  which  iinitav 
them  is  indissoluble. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


67 


chaise ; the  Lady  Glorvina  kissing  her  hand  to 
us  all,  and  crying  bitterly  till  she  was  out  of 
sight.  But  then,  Sir,  what  would  you  have  of  it; 
the  Prince  shortly  after  found  out  that  this  same 
Mr.  Mortgagee^  was  no  other  than  a spalpeen 

steward  of  Lord  M ’s.  It  was  thought  he 

would  have  run  mad  when  he  found  that  almost 
the  last  acre  of  his  hereditary  lands  was  in  the 
possession  of  the  servant  of  his  hereditary  ene- 
my ; for  so  deadly  is  the  hatred  he  bears  to  my 
Lord,  .that  upon  my  conscience,  I believe  the 
young  Prince  who  held  the  bleeding  body  of  his 
murdered  father  in  his  arms,  felt  not  greater  for 
the  murderer,  than  our  Prince  does  for  that  mur- 
der’s descendant. 

“ Now  my  Lord  is  just  such  a man  as  God 
never  made  better,  and  wishing  with  all  the  veins 
in  his  heart  to  serve  the  old  Prince,  and  do  away 
ail  difference  between  them,  what  does  he  do, 
jewel,  but  writes  him  a mighty  pretty  letter,  of- 
fering this  house  and  a part  of  the  lands  a pres- 
ent. O ! divil  a word  of  lie  I’m  after  tellinor 

o 

you ; but  what  would  you  have  of  it,  but  this  offer 
sets  the  Prince  madder  than  all ; for  you  know 
that  this  was  an  insult  on  his  honour,  which 
warmed  every  drop  of  Milesian  blood  in  his  body 
for  he  would  rather  starve  to  death  all  his  life, 
than  have  it  thought  he  would  be  obligated  to  any 
body  at  all  at  all  for  wherewithal  to  support  him ; 
so  with  that  the  Prince  writes  him  a letter : it 
was  brought  by  the  old  steward,  who  knew  every 


68 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


liiu  of  the  contents  of  it,  though  divil  a line  in 
it  but  two,  and  that  same  was  but  one  and  a half, 
as  one  may  say,  and  this  it  was,  as  the  old  steward 
told  me: 

“ The  son  of  the  son  of  the  son’s  son  of  Bryan, 
Prince  of  Inismore,  can  receive  no  favour  from 
the  descendant  of  his  ancestor’s  murderer.” 

“ Now  it  was  plain  enough  to  be  seen,  that  my 
Lord  took  this  to  heart,  as  well  he  might,  faith; 
however,  he  r onsidered  that  it  came  from  a mis- 
fortunate  Priiice,  he  let  it  drop,  and  so  this  was 
all  that  ever  passed  between  them ; however,  he 
was  angry  enough  with  his  steward,  but  Meas- 
ther  Clendinning  put  his  comehiiher  on  him,  and 
convinced  him  that  the  biggest  rogue  alive  was  an 
honest  man.” 

“ And  the  Prince !”  I interrupted  eagerly. 

“ Och,  jewel,  the  prince  lives  away  in  the  old 
Irish  fashion,  only  he  has  not  a Christian  soul 
now  at  all  at  all,  most  of  the  old  Milesian  gentry 
having  quit  the  country  ; besides,  the  Prince  be- 
ing in  a bad  state  of  health,  and  having  nearly 
lost  the  use  of  his  limbs,  and  his  heart  being 
heavy,  and  his  purse  light ; for  all  that  he  keeps 
up  the  old  Irish  customs  and  dress,  letting  no- 
body eat  at  the  same  table  but  his  daughter,*  not 
even  his  Lady  when  she  was  alive.” 

♦M’Dermot,  Prince  of  Coolavin,  never  suffered  his  wife 
to  sit  at  table  with  him  ; although  his  daughter-in-law  was 
permitted  to  that  honour,  as  she  was  the  descendant  from 
the  K^yal  family  of  the  O^Conor. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


63 

" And  do  you  think  the  son  of  Lord  M 

frouid  have  no  chance  of  obtaining  an  audience 
from  the  Prince  ?” 

“ What  the  young  gentleman  that  they  say  is 
come  to  M — house  ? why  about  as  much  chance 
as  his  father,  but  by  my  conscience,  that’s  a bad 
one.” 

And  your  young  Princess,  is  she  as  implaca- 
ble as  her  father?” 

“ Why,  faith  ! I cannot  well  tell  you  what  the 
Lady  Glorvina  is,  for  she  is  like  nothing  upon  the 
face  of  God’s  creation  but  herself.  I do  not 
know  how  it  comes  to  pass,  that  every  mother’s 
soul  of  us  loves  her  better  nor  the  Prince ; ay, 
by  my  conscience,  and  fear  her  too ; for  well  may 
they  fear  her,  on  the  score  of  her  great  learning, 
being  brought  up  by  Father  John,  the  chaplain, 
and  spouting  Latin  faster  nor  the  priest  of  the 
parish : and  we  may  well  love  her,  for  she  is  a 
saint  upon  earth,  and  a great  physicianer  to  boot ; 
curing  all  the  sick  and  maimed  for  twenty  miles 
round.  Then  she  is  so  proud,  that  divil  a one 
soul  of  the  quality  will  she  visit  in  the  whole  bar- 
ony, though  she  will  sit  in  a smoky  cabin  for 
hours  together,  to  talk  to  the  poor : besides  all 
this,  she  will  sit  for  hours  at  her  Latin  and  Greek, 
after  the  family  are  gone  to  bed,  and  yet  you  will 
see  her  up  with  the  dawn,  running  like  a doe 
about  the  rocks ; her  fine  yellow  hair  streaming 
111  the  wind,  for  all  the  world  like  a mermaid 


70 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Och  ! my  blessing  light  on  her  every  day  she 
sees  the  light,  for  she  is  the  jev^  el  of  a child.” 

“ A child  ! say  you  !” 

“ Why,  to  be  sure  I think  her  one  ; for  many 
a time  I carried  her  in  these  arms,  and  taught  her 
to  bless  herself  in  Irish ; but  she  is  no  child 
either,  for  as  one  of  our  old  Irish  songs  says, 
‘ Upon  her  cheek  we  see  love’s  letter  sealed  with 
a damask  rose.’*  But  if  your  Honour  has  any 
curiosity  you  may  judge  for  yourself ; for  matins 
and  vespers  are  celebrated  every  day  in  the  year, 
in  the  old  chapel  belonging  to  the  castle,  and  the 
whole  family  attend.” 

“ And  are  strangers  also  permitted  ?” 

“ Faith  and  it’s  themselves  that  are  ; but  few 
indeed  trouble  them,  though  none  are  denied. 
I used  to  get  to  mass  myself  sometimes,  but  it  is 
now  too  far  to  walk  for  me.” 

This  was  sufficient,  I waited  to  hear  no  more, 
but  repaid  my  communicative  companion  for  his 
information,  and  rode  off,  having  inquired  the 
road  to  Inismore  from  the  first  man  I met. 

It  would  be  vain,  it  would  be  impossible  to  de- 

*This  is  a line  of  a song  of  one  Dignum,  who  compos 
ed  in  his  native  language,  but  could  neither  read  nor  write 
nor  spoke  any  language  but  his  own. 

“ I have  seen,”  said  the  celebrated  Edmund  Burke  (who 
in  his  boyish  days  had  known  him)  “ some  of  his  elFu- 
sions  translated  into  English,  but  was  assured,  by  judges, 
that  they  fell  far  short  of  the  originals ; yet  they  contained 
some  graces,  ‘snatched  beyond  die  reach  of  art.’” — Vide 
Life  of  Burke. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


71 


acribe  the  emotion  which  the  simple  tale  of  this 
old  man  awakened.  The  descendant  of  a mur- 
derer ! The  very  scoundrel  steward  of  my  father 
revelling  in  the  property  of  a man  who  shelters 
his  aged  head  beneath  the  ruins  of  those  walls 
where  his  ancestors  bled  under  the  uplifted 
sword  of  mine. 

Why  this,  you  will  say,  is  the  romance  of  a 
novel-read  schoolboy.  Are  we  not  all,  the  lit- 
tle and  the  great,  descended  from  assassins ; was 
not  the  first  born  man  a fratricide  ? and  still,  on 
the  field  of  unappeased  contention,  does  not 

man  the  murderer,  meet  the  murderer,  man  ?’* 

Yes,  yes,  ’tis  all  true  ; humanity  acknowledges 
it  and  shudders.  But  still  I wish  my  family  had 
never  possessed  an  acre  of  ground  in  this  coun- 
try, or  possessed  it  on  other  terms.  I always 
knew  the  estate  fell  into  our  family  in  the  civil 
wars  of  Cromwell,  and,  in  the  world’s  language, 
was  the  well-earned  meed  of  my  progenitor’s 
valour ; but  I seemed  to  hear  it  now  for  the  first 
time. 

I am  glad,  however,  that  this  old  Irish  chief- 
tain is  such  a ferocious  savage  ; that  the  pity  his 
fate  awakens  is  qualified  by  aversion  for  his  im- 
placable, irascible  disposition.  I am  glad  his 
daughter  is  red  headed^  a pedant,  and  a romp ; that 
she  spouts  Latin  like  the  priest  of  the  parish, 
and  cures  sore  fingers;  that  she  avoids  genteel 
society,  where  her  ideal  rank  would  procure  her 
QO  respect,  and  her  unpolished  ignorance,  by  force 


72 


THi’  WILD  IRISH  GIKL, 


of  contrast,  make  her  feel  her  real  inferiority;  tDai 
she  gossips  among  the  poor  peasants,  over  whom 
she  can  reign  liege  Lady ; and,  that  she  has  been 
brought  up  by  a Jesuitical  priest,  who  has  doubt- 
lessly rendered  her  as  bigoted  and  illiberal  as 
himself.  All  this  soothes  my  conscientous  throes 
of  feeling  and  compassion  ; for  oh  ! if  this  sav- 
age chief  was  generous  and  benevolent,  as  he  is 
independent  and  spirited  ; if  this  daughter  was 
amiable  and  intelligent,  as  she  must  be  simple 
and  unvitiated  ! But  I dare  not  pursue  the  sup- 
position, It  is  better  as  it  is. 

You  would  certainly  never  guess  that  the  Vil- 
la di  Marino,  from  whence  I date  the  continua- 
tion of  my  letter,  was  simply  a Jisherman^s  hut 
on  the  seacoast,  half  way  between  the  Lodge  and 
Castle  of  Inismore,  that  is,  seven  miles  distant 
from  each.  Determined  on  attending  vespers  at 
Inismore,  I was  puzzling  my  brain  to  think  where 
or  how  I should  pass  the  night,  when  this  hut 
caught  my  eye,  and  1 rode  up  to  it  to  inquire  if 
there  was  any  inn  in  the  neighbourhood,  where 
a chevalier  errant  could  shelter  his  adventurous 
head  for  a night;  but  I was  informed  the  nearest 
inn  was  fifteen  miles  distant,  so  I bespoke  a little 
fresh  straw,  and  a clean  blanket  which  hung  air- 
inor  on  some  fishing  tackle  outside  the  door  of 
this  marine  hotel,  in  preference  to  riding  so  far 
for  a bed,  at  so  late  an  hour  as  that  in  which  the 
vespers  would  be  concluded. 

This  mine  host  of  the  Atlantic  promised  me, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


73 


pointing  to  a little  board  suspended  over  the 
door,  on  which  was  written 

“ Good  Dry  Lodging, 

My  landlord,  however,  convinced  me  his  hotel 
afforded  something  better  than  good  dry  lodging  ; 
for  entreating  me  to  alight,  till  a shower  passed 
over  which  was  beorinninor  to  fall,  I entered  the 
hut,  and  found  his  wife,  a sturdy  lad  their  eldest 
son,  and  two  naked  little  ones,  seated  at  their 
dinner,  and  enjoying  such  a feast,  as  Apicius, 
who  sailed  to  Africa  from  Rome  to  eat  good  oys- 
ters, would  gladly  have  voyaged  from  Rome  lo 
Ireland  to  have  partaken  of ; for^  they  were  ab- 
solutely dining  on  an  immense  turbot  (whosci 
fellow-sufferers  were  floundering  in  a boat  that 
lay  anchored  near  the  door.)  A most  cor- 
dial invitation  on  their  part,  and  a most  willing 
compliance  on  mine,  we^s  the  ceremony  of  a mo- 
ment ; and  never  did  an  English  alderman  on 
turtle  day,  or  Roman  emperor  on  lampreys  and 
peacocks’  livers,  make  a more  delicious  repast, 
than  the  chance  guest  of  these  good  people,  on 
their  boiled  turbot  and  roasted  potatoes,  which 
was  quaffed  down  by  the  pure  phalernian  of  a 
neighbouring  spring. 

Having  learnt  that  the  son  was  going  with  the 

compeers  of  the  demolished  turbot  to  Bally , 

I took  out  my  little  escritoire  to  write  you  an  ac- 
count of  the  first  adventure  of  my  chivalrous  tour; 

7 


T4 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIUI,. 


while  one  of  spring’s  most  grateful  sunny  show 
ers,  is  pattering  on  the  leaves  of  the  only  tree 
that  shades  this  simple  dwelling,  and  my  Rosi- 
nante  is  nibbling  a scanty  dinner  from  the  patch- 
es of  vegetation  that  sprinkle  the  surrounding 
cliffs.  Adieu ! the  vesper  hour  arrives.  In  all 
“ my  orisons  thy  sins  shall  be  remembered.” 
The  spirit  of  adventure  wholly  possesses  me, 
and  on  the  dusky  horizon  of  life,  some  little  glim- 
mering of  light  begins  to  dawn.  ' 

Encore  adieu. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  V. 

ro  J.  D,  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Castle  of  Inismore,  Barony  of . 

Ay,  ’tis  even  so — point  your  glasses — and  rub 
your  eyes,  ’tis  all  one  ; here  I am,  and  here  I am 
likely  to  remain  for  some  time,  but  whether  a 
prisoner  of  war,  taken  up  on  a suspicion  of  es- 
pionage, or  to  be  offered  as  an  appeasing  sacri- 
fice to  the  manes  of  the  old  Prince  of  Inismore, 
you  must  for  a while  suspend  your  patience  to 
learn. 

According  to  the  earte  du  pays  laid  out  for  me 
by  the  fisherman,  I left  the  shore  and  crossed  the 
summit  of  a mountain  that  “ battled  o’er  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


75 


deep,”  and  wldch  after  an  hour’s  ascension,  I 
found  sloped  almost  perpendicularly  down  to  a 
hold  and  rocky  coast,  its  base  terminating  in  a 
peninsula,  that  advanced  for  near  half  a mile  in- 
to the  ocean.  Towards  the  extreme  western 
point  of  this  peninsula,  which  was  wildly  roman- 
tic beyond  all  description,  arose  a vast  and  gro- 
tesque pile  of  rocks,  which  at  once  formed  the 
scite  and  fortifications  of  the  nobles-t  mass  of 
ruins  on  which  my  eye  ever  rested.  Grand  even 
in  desolation,  and  magnificent  in  decay — it  was 
the  Castle  of  Inismore.  The  settinor  sun  shone 

O 

brightly  on  its  mouldering  turrets,  and  the  waves 
which  bathed  its  rocky  basis,  reflected  on  their 
swelling  bosoms  the  dark  outlines  of  its  awful 
ruins.* 

As  I descended  the  mountain’s  brow  I observ- 
ed that  the  little  isthnuis  which  joined  the  penin^ 
sula  to  the  main  land  had  been  cut  away,  and  a 
curious  danger-threatening  bridge  was  rudely 
thrown  across  the  intervening  gulf,  flung  from  the 
rocks  on  one  side  to  an  ansfle  of  the  mountain  on 

o 

the  other,  leaving  a yawning  chasm  of  some 
fathome  deep  beneath  the  foot  of  the  wary  pas- 
senger. This  must  have  been  a very  perilous 
pass  in  the  days  of  civil  warfare  ; and  in  the  in- 
trepidity of  my  daring  ancestor,  I almost  forgot 

mus 

♦ Those  who  have  visited  the  Castle  of  Dunluce,  near 
the  Giant’s  Causeway,  may,  perhaps,  have  some  idea  of 
its  striking  features  in  this  rude  draught  of  the  Castle  of 

[tiismore. 


76 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


his  crime.  Amidst  the  interstices  of  the  rocks 
wliich  skirted  the  shores  of  this  interesting  pen- 
insula, patclies  of  the  richest  vegetation  were  to 
1)6  seen,  and  the  trees  which  sprung  wildly 
ainonof  its  venerable  ruins,  were  burstinor  into  all 
the  vernal  luxuriancy  of  spring.  In  the  course 
of  my  descent,  several  cabins  of  a better  descrip- 
tion than  I had  yefseen,  appeared  scattered  be- 
neath the  shelter  of  the  mountain’s  innumerable 
projections  ; while  in  the  air  and  dress  of  the  in- 
habitants (which  the  sound  of  my  horse’s  feet 
brought  to  their  respective  doors,)  I evidently 
perceived  a something  original  and  primitive,  I 
had  never  noticed  before  in  this  class  of  persons 
here. 

They  appeared  to  me,  I know  not  why,  to  be 
in  their  holiday  garb,  and  their  dress,  though 
grotesque  and  coarse,  was  cleanly  and  character- 
istic. I observed  that  round  the  heads  of  the 
elderly  dames  were  folded  several  wreaths  of 
white  or  coloured  linen,*  and  others  had  hand 
kerchiefsf  lightly  folded  round  their  brows,  and 
curiously  fastened  under  the  chin ; while  the 
young  wore  their  hair  fastened  up  with  wooden 
bodkins.  They  were  all  enveloped  in  large 

^ The  women’s  ancient  headdress  so  perfectly  resem- 
bles that  of  the  Egyptian  Isis,  that  it  cannot  he  doubled  but 
that  the  modes  of  Egypt  were  preserved  among  the  Irish.” 
• — Walker  on  the  Ancient  Irish  dress,  p.  62. 

f These  liandkerchiefs  they  call  “ Binnogues:’*  it  is  a 
reinnaiil  of  a very  ancient  mode. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


77 


shapeless  mantles  of  blue  frieze,  and  most  of 
them  had  a rosary  hanging  on  their  arm,  from 
whence  I inferred  they  were  on  the  point  of  at- 
tending vespers  at  the  chapel  of  Inismore.  I 
alighted  at  the  door  of  a cabin  a few  paces  dis- 
tant from  the  Alpine  bridge,  and  entreated  a shed 
for  my  horse,  while  I performed  my  devotions. 
The  man  to  whom  I addressed  myself,  seemed 
the  only  one  of  several  who  surrounded  me  that 
understood  English,  and  appeared  much  edified 
by  my  pious  intention,  saying,  “ that  God  would 
prosper  my  Honour’s  journey,  and  that  I was 
welcome  to  a shed  for  my  horse,  and  a night’s 
lodging  for  myself  into  the  bargain.”  He  then 
offered  to  be  my  guide,  and  as  we  crossed  the 
drawbridge,  he  told  me  I was  out  of  luck  by  not 
coming  earlier,  for  that  high  mass  had  been  cel- 
ebrated  that  morning  for  the  repose  of  the  soul 
of  a Prince  of  Inismore,  who  had  been  murder- 
ed on  this  very  day  of  the  month.  “ And  when 
this  day  comes  round,”  he  added,  “ we  all  attend 
dressed  in  our  best ; for  my  part,  I never  wear 
my  poor  old  grandfather’s  berrad  but  on  the  like 
occasion,”  taking  off  a curious  cap  of  a conical 
form,  which  he  twirled  round  his  hand  and  re- 
garded with  much  satisfaction.* 

By  heavens  ! as  I breathed  this  region  of  su- 
perstition, so  strongly  was  I infected,  that  my 

♦A  few  years  back,  Hugh  Dugan,  a peasant  of  tb< 
county  of  Kilkenny,  who  affected  the  ancient  Irish  dresa, 
■eldom  appeared  without  his  berrad. 

7* 


T8  THE  ’W'ILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

usual  scepticism  was  scarcely  proof  against  my 
inclination  to  mount  my  horse  and  gallop  off*,  as 
I shudderingly  pronounced, 

“ I am  then  entering  the  castle  of  Inismore 
on  the  anniversary  of  that  day  on  which  my  an- 
cestors took  the  life  of  its  venerable  Prince  !” 

You  see,  my  good  friend,  how  much  we  are 
the  creatures  of  situation  and  circumstance,  and 
with  what  pliant  servility  the  mind  resigns  itself 
to  the  impressions  of  the  senses,  or  the  illusions 
of  the  imao^ination. 

We  had  now  reached  the  ruined  cloisters  of 
the  chapel,  I paused  to  examine  their  curious  but 
dilapidated  architecture  when  my  guide,  hurry- 
ing me  on,  said,  “ if  I did  not  quicken  my  pace, 
I should  miss  getting  a good  view  of  the  Prince,” 
who  was  just  entering  by  a door  opposite  to  that 
we  had  passed  through.  Behold  me  then  ming- 
ling among  a group  of  peasantry,  and,  like  them, 
straining  my  eyes  to  that  magnet  which  fascina- 
ted every  glance. 

And  sure,  fancy,  in  her  boldest  flight,  never 
gave  to  the  fairy  vision  of  poetic  dreams,  a com- 
bination of  images  more  poetically  fine,  more  stri- 
kingly  picturesque,  or  more  impressively  touch- 
ing. Nearly  one  half  of  the  chapel  of  Inismore 
has  fallen  into  decay,  and  the  ocean  breeze  as  it 
rushed  through  the  fractured  roof,  wafted  the  tom 
banners  of  the  family  which  hung  along  its  dis- 
mantled walls.  The  red  beams  of  the  sinking 
sun  shone  on  the  glittering  tabernacle  which 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


7^ 


stood  on  the  altar,  and  touched  with  theii  golden 
light  the  sacerdotal  vestments  of  the  two  officia- 
ting priests,  who  ascended  its  broken  steps  at  the 
moment  that  the  Prince  and  his  family  entered. 

The  first  of  this  most  singular  and  interesting 
group,  was  the  venerable  Father  John,  the  chap- 
lain. Religious  enthusiasm  never  gave  to  the 
fancied  form  of  the  first  of  the  patriarchs,  a 
countenance  of  more  holy  expression  or  divine 
resignation  ; a figure  more  touching  by  its  digni- 
fied simplicity,  or  an  air  more  beneficently  mild, 
more  meekly  good.  He  was  dressed  in  his  pon- 
tificals, and,  with  his  eyes  bent  to  the  earth,  his 
hands  spread  upon  his  breast,  he  joined  his  co- 
adjutors. 

What  a contrast  to  this  saintly  being  now 
struck  my  view  ; a form  almost  gigantic  in  stat- 
ure, yet  gently  thrown  forward  by  evident  infir- 
mity ; limbs  of  herculean  mould,  and  a counte- 
nance rather  furrowed  by  the  inroads  of  vehement 
passions,  than  the  deep  trace  of  years.  Eyes 
still  emanating  the  ferocity  of  an  unsubdued  spir- 
it, yet  tempered  by  a strong  trait  of  benevolence ; 
which,  like  a glory,  irradiated  a broad  expansive 
brow,  a mouth  on  which  even  yet  the  spirit  of 
convivial  enjoyment  seemed  to  hover,  though  sha- 
ded by  two  large  whiskers  on  the  upper  lip,* 

* I have  been  confidently  assured,  that  the  granfather 
of  IIh)  present  Rt.  Hon.  John  O’Neal,  (great  grandfather 
to  the  present  Lord  O’Neal)  the  elegant  and  accomplished 
owner  of  Shane’s  Castle,  wore  his  beard  after  the  prohib- 
ited Irish  mode.” — Walker,  p.  62. 


80 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


which  still  preserved  their  ebon  hut  ; m hilft 
time  or  grief  had  bleached  the  scattered  hairs 
which  hung  their  snows  upon  the  manly  temple. 
The  drapery  which  covered  this  striking  figure 
was  singularly  appropriate,  and,  as  I have  since 
been  told,  strictly  conformable  to  the  ancient  cos- 
tume of  the  Irish  nobles. 

The  only  part  of  the  under  garment  visible, 
was  the  ancient  Irish  truis,  which  closely  adhe- 
ring to  the  limbs  from  the  waist  to  the  ancle,  in- 
cludes the  pantaloon  and  hose,  and  terminates  in 
a buskin  not  dissimilar  to  the  Roman  perones, 
A triangular  mantle  of  bright  scarlet  cloth,  em- 
broidered and  fringed  round  the  edges,  fell  from 
his  shoulders  to  the  ground,  and  was  fastened  at 
the  breast  with  a large  circular  golden  brooch,  of 
a workmanship  most  curiously  beautiful ; round 
his  neck  hung  a golden  collar,  which  seemed 
to  denote  the  wearer  of  some  order  of  knight- 
hood, probably  hereditary  in  his  family  ; a dag- 
ger, called  a skiene  (for  my  guide  explained  every 
article  of  the  dress  to  me,)  was  sheathed  in  his 
girdle,  and  was  discerned  by  the  sunbeam  that 
played  on  its  brilliant  haft.  And  as  he  entered 
the  chapel,  he  removed  from  his  venerable  head 
a cap  or  berrad,  of  the  same  form  as  that  I had 
noticed  with  my  guide,  but  made  of  velvet,  richly 
embroidered. 

The  chieftain  moved  with  dignity — yet  with 
difficulty — and  his  colossal,  but  infirm  frame, 
seemed  to  claim  support  from  a form  so  almost 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


81 


impalpab!  / delicate,  that  as  it  floated  on  the  gaze, 
it  seemed  like  the  incarnation  of  some  pure  ethe- 
real spirit,  which  a sigh,  too  roughly  breathed, 
would  dissolve  into  its  kindred  air  ; yet  to  this 
syjphid  elegance  of  spheral  beauty  was  united 
all  that  symmetrical  contour  which  constitutes  the 
luxury  of  human  loveliness.  This  scarcely  “ mor- 
tal mixture  of  earth’s  mould,”  was  vested  in  a robe 
of  vestal  white,  which  was  enfolded  beneath  the 
bosom  with  a narrow  girdle  embossed  with  pre 
cious  stones. 

From  the  shoulder  fell  a mantle  of  scarlet  silk, 
fastened  at  the  neck  wdth  a silver  bodkin,  while 
the  fine  turned  head  was  enveloped  in  a veil  of 
point  lace,  bound  round  the  brow  with  a band  or 
diadem,  ornamented  with  the  same  description  of 
jewels  as  encircled  her  arms.* 

Such  was  the  Jigure  of  the  Princess  of  Inis- 
more ! But  oh ! not  once  was  the  face  turned 
round  towards  that  side  where  I stood.  And 


♦This  was,  with  a little  variatioii,  the  general  costume 
of  the  female  noblesse  of  Ireland  from  a very  early  period. 
In  the  fifteenth  century  the  veil  was  very  prevalent,  and 
was  termed  fillag,  or  scarf ; the  Irish  ladies,  like  those  of 
ancient  and  modern  Greece,  seldom  appearing.  As  the 
veil  made  no  part  of  the  Celtic  costume,  its  origin  was  pro- 
bably merely  oriental 

The  great  love  of  ornaments  betrayed  by  the  Irish  ladies 
of  other  times,  ‘‘  the  beauties  of  the  heroes  of  old,”  ar« 
thus  described  by  a quaint  and  ancient  author  ; — “ Their 
necks  are  hung  with  chains  and  carkanets — their  arms 
wreathed  with  many  bracelets.” 

F 


82 


THE.  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


when  I shifted  my  position,  the  envious  veil  im 
tercepted  the  ardent  glance  Avhich  eagerly  sought 
the  fancied  charms  it  concealed : for  was  it  pos- 
sible to  doubt  the  face  would  not  “ keep  the  pro- 
mise that  the  form  had  made.” 

The  group  that  followed  was  grotesque  beyond 
ail  powers  of  description.  The  ancient  bard, 
whose  long  white  beard 

‘‘  Descending,  swept  his  aged  breast/^ 

the  incongruous  costume — half  modern,  half  an- 
tique, of  the  bare  footed  domestics,  the  ostensi- 
ble steward,  vfho  closed  the  procession — and 
above  all,  the  dignified  importance  of  the  nurse^ 
who  took  the  lead  in  it  immediately  after  her 
young  lady ; her  air,  form,  countenance,  and 
dress,  were  indeed  so  singularly  fantastic  and 
outre ^ that  the  genius  of  masquerade  might  have 
adopted  her  figure  as  the  finest  model  of  gro- 
tesque caricature. 

Conceive  for  a moment  a form  v«^hose  longi- 
tude bore  no  degree  of  proportion  to  her  latitude  ; 
dressed  in  a short  jacket  of  brown  cloth,  with 
loose  sleeves  from  the  elbow  to  the  wrist,  made 
of  red  camblet  striped  with  green,  and  turned  up 
with  a broad  cuff — a petticoat  of  scarlet  frieze, 
covered  by  an  apron  of  green  serge,  longitudi- 
nally striped  with  scarlet  tape,  and  sufficiently 
short  to  betray  an  ancle  that  sanctioned  all  the 
libels  ever  uttered  against  the  ancles  of  the  Irish 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


83 


fair — ^true  national  brogues  set  off  her  blue  wors- 
ted stockings,  and  her  yellow  hair,  dragged  over 
a high  roll,  was  covered  on  the  summit  with  a 
little  coiff,  over  which  was  flung  a scarlet  hand- 
kerchief, which  fastened  in  a large  bow  under 
her  rubicund  chin. 

As  this  singular  and  interesting  group  advan- 
ced up  the  central  aisle  of  the  chapel,  reverence 
and  affection  were  evidently  blended  in  the  looks 
of  the  multitude  which  hung  upon  their  steps ; 
and  though  the  Prince  and  his  daughter  seeked 
to  lose  in  the  meekness  of  true  religion  all  sense 
of  temporal  inequality,  and  promiscuously  ming- 
led with  the  congregTttion,  yet  that  distinction 
they  humbly  avoided,  was  reverently  forced  on 
them  by  the  affectionate  crowd,  which  drew  back 
on  either  side  as  they  advanced,  until  the  chief- 
tain and  his  child  stood  alone  in  the  centre  of  the 
ruined  choir,  the  winds  of  heaven  playing  freely 
amidst  their  garments,  the  sun’s  setting  beam  en- 
riching their  beautiful  figures  with  its  orient  tints, 
while  he,  like  Milton’s  ruined  angel, 

“ Above  the  rest, 

In  shape  and  feature  proudly  eminent, 

Stood  like  a tower 

and  she,  like  the  personified  spirit  of  Mercy 
hovered  round  him,  or  supported  more  by  ten- 
derness than  her  strength,  him  from  whom  she 
rould  no  longer  claim  support. 

Those  gray  headed  domestics,  too,  those  faith 


84 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


fill  though  hut  nominal  vassals,  whc  offered  thal 
voluntary  reverence  with  their  looks,  which  his 
repaid  with  fatherly  affection,  while  the  anguish 
of  a suffering  heart  hung  on  his  pensive  smile, 
sustained  by  the  firmness  of  that  indignant  pride 
which  lowered  on  his  ample  brow ! 

What  a picture  ! 

As  soon  as  the  first  flush  of  interest,  curiosity, 
and  amazement  had  subsided,  my  attention  was 
carried  towards  the  altar ; and  then  I thought  as 
I watched  the  impressive  avocation  of  Father 
John,  that  had  I been  the  Prince,  I would  have 
been  the  Caiphas  too. 

What  a religion  is  this ! How  finely  does  it 
harmonize  with  the  weakness  of  our  nature , 
how  seducingly  it  speaks  to  the  senses  ; how 
forcibly  it  works  on  the  passions  ; how  strongly 
it  seizes  on  the  imagination ; how  interesting  its 
forms  ; how  graceful  its  ceremonies  ; how  awful 
its  rites.  What  a captivating,  what  a picturesque 
faith ! Who  would  not  become  its  proselyte, 
were  it  not  for  the  stern  opposition  of  reason,  the 
cold  suggestions  of  philosophy  ! ' 

The  last  strain  of  the  vesper  hymn  died  on  the 
air  as  the  sun’s  last  beam  faded  on  the  casements 
of  the  chapel ; and  the  Prince  and  his  daughter 
to  avoid  the  intrusion  of  the  crowd,  withdrew 
through  a private  door,  which  communicated  by 
a ruinous  arcade  with  the  castle. 

I was  the  first  to  leave  the  chapel,  and  followed 
them  at  a distance  as  they  moved  slowly  along 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


85 


Their  fine  figures,  sometimes  concealed  behind  sl 
pillar,  and  again  emerging  from  the  transieiU 
shade,  flushed  with  the  deep  suffusion  of  the 
crimsoned  firmament. 

Once  they  paused,  as  if  to  admire  the  beautiful 
effect  of  the  retreating  light,  as  it  faded  on  the 
ocean’s  swelling  bosom  ; and  once  the  Princess 
raised  her  hand  and  pointed  to  the  evening  star, 
which  rose  brilliantly  on  the  deep  cerulean  blue 
of  a cloudless  atmosphere,  and  shed  its  fairy 
beam  on  the  mossy  summit  of  a mouldering 
turret. 

Such  were  the  sublime  objects  which  seemed 
to  enixao^e  their  attention,  and  added  their  sensible 
inspiration  to  the  fervour  of  those  more  abstract- 
ed devotions  in  which  they  were  so  recently  en- 
gaged. At  last  they  reached  the  portals  of  the 
castle,  and  I lost  sight  of  them.  Yet  still  spell- 
bound, I stood  transfixed  to  the  spot  from  whence 
1 had  caught  a last  view  of  their  receding  figures. 

While  I felt  like  the  victim  of  superstitious 
terror  when  the  spectre  of  its  distempered  fancy 
vanishes  from  its  strained  and  eager  gaze,  all  I 
had  lately  seen  revolved  in  my  mind  like  some 
pictured  story  of  romantic  fiction.  I cast  round 
my  eyes  ; all  still  seemed  the  vision  of  awaken- 
ed imagination.  Surrounded  by  a scenery  grand 
even  to  the  boldest  majesty  of  nature,  and  wild 
even  to  desolation — the  day’s  dying  splendours, 
awfully  involving  in  the  gloomy  haze  of  deepen^ 
tug  twilight — ^the  gray  mists  of  stealing  nighi 

9 


86 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


gathering  on  the  still  faintly  illumined,  surface  of 
the  ocean,  whmh,  awfully  spreading  to  infinitude, 
seemed  to  the  limited  gaze,  of  human  vision  to 
incorporate  with  the  heaven  whose  last  glow  it 
reflected — ^the  rocks,  which  on  every  side  rose  to 
Alpine  elevation,  exhibiting,  amidst  the  soft  ob- 
scurity, forms  savagely  bold  or  grotesquely  wild  ; 
and  those  finely  interesting  ruins  which  spread 
grandly  desolate  in  the  rear,  and  added  a moral 
interest  to  the  emotions  excited  by  this  view  of 
nature  in  her  most  awful,  most  touching  aspect. 

Thus  suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  world’s 
busiest  haunts,  its  hackneyed  modes,  its  vicious 
pursuits,  and  unimportant  avocations — dropped  as  it 
were  amidst  scenes  and  mysterious  sublimity — 
alone — on  the  wildest  shores  of  the  greatest 
ocean  of  the  universe  ; immersed  amidst  the  de- 
caying monuments  of  past  ages ; still  viewing  in 
recollection  such  forms,  such  manners,  such  hab- 
its (as  I had  lately  beheld,)  which  to  the  worldly 
mind  may  be  well  supposed  to  belong  to  a race 
long  passed  beyond  the  barrier  of  existence, 
with  “the  years  beyond  the  flood,”  I felt  like  the 
being  of  some  other  sphere  newly  alighted  on  a 
distant  orb.  While  the  novel  train  of  thought 
which  stole  on  my  mind,  seemed  to  seize  its  tone 
from  the  awful  tranquillity  by  which  I was  sur- 
rounded, and  I remained  leaning  on  the  fragment 
lof  a rock,  as  the  waves  dashed  idly  against  its 
hase,  until  their  dark  heads  were  silvered  by  the 
‘?i6ing  moon,  and  while  my  eyes  dwelt  on  her  si- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


87 


lent  progress,  the  castle  clock  struck  Line.  Thus 
warned,  I arose  to  depart,  yet  not  without  reluc- 
tance. My  soul,  for  the  first  time,  had  here  held 
commune  with  herself ; the  “ lying  vanities”  of 
life  no  longer  intoxicating  my  senses,  appeared 
to  me  for  the  first  time  in  their  genuine  aspect, 
and  iny  heart  still  fondly  loitered  over  those 
scenes  of  solemn  interest,  where  some  of  its 
best  feelinors  had  been  called  into  existence. 

O 

Slowly  departing,  1 raised  my  eyes  to  the  Cas- 
tle of  Inismore  and  sighed,  and  almost  wished  I 
had  been  born  the  Lord  of  these  beautiful  ruins, 
the  Prince  of  this  isolated  little  territory,  and 
adored  chieftain  of  these  affectionate  and  natural 
people.  At  that  moment  a strain  of  music  stole 
by  me,  as  if  the  breeze  of  midnight  stillness  had 
expired  in  a manner  on  the  Eolian  lyre.  Emo- 
tion, undefinable  emotion,  thrilled  on  every  nerve. 
I listened.  I trembled.  A breathless  silence 
gave  me  every  note.  W as  it  the  illusion  of  my  now 
all-awakened  fancy,  or  the  professional  exertions 
of  the  bard  of  Inismore  1 Oh,  no!  for  the  voice 
it  symphonized,  the  low,  wild,  tremulous  voice 
which  sweetly  sighed  its  soul  of  melody  o’er  the 
harp’s  responsive  chords,  was  the  voice  of  a 
woman  ! 

Directed  by  the  witching  strain,  I approached 
an  angle  of  the  building  from  whence  it  seemed 
to  proceed ; and  perceiving  a light  which  stream^ 
ed  through  an  open  casement,'  I climbed  with 
Bome  difficulty  the  ruins  of  a parapet  wall  which 


88 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


en'circled  this  wing  of  the  castle,  and  which 
rose  so  immediately  under  the  casement  as  to 
give  me,  when  I stood  on  it,  a perfect  view  of 
the  interior  of  that  apartment  to  which  it  be- 
longed. 

Two  tapers,  which  burned  on  a marble  slab  at 
the  remotest  extremity  of  this  vast  and  gloomy 
chamber,  shed  their  dim  blue  light  on  the  saintly 
countenance  of  Father  John,  who,  with  a large 
folio  open  before  him,  seemed  wholly  wrap- 
ped in  studious  meditation ; while  the  Prince,  re- 
clined on  an  immense  Gothic  couch,  with  his  robe 
thrown  over  the  arm  that  supported  his  head,  be- 
trayed by  the  expression  of  his  countenance 
those  emot'ions  which  agitated  his  soul,  while  he 
listened  to  those  strains  which  spoke  at  once  to 
the  heart  of  the  father,  the  patriot,  and  the  man — 
breathed  from  the  chords  of  his  country’s  em- 
blem— breathed  in  the  pathos  of  his  country’s 
music — breathed  from  the  lips  of  his  apparently 
inspired  daughter  ! The  “ white  rising  of  her 
hands  upon  the  harp  the  half-drawn  veil  that 
imperfectly  discovered  the  countenance  of  a ser- 
aph ; the  moonlight  that  played  round  her  fine 
form,  and  partially  touched  her  drapery  with  its 
silver  beam — her  attitude  ! her  air  ! But  how 
cold — how  inanimate — how  imperfect  this  de- 
scription ! Oh  ! could  I but  seize  the  touching 
features — could  I but  realize  the  vivid  tints  of  this 
enchanting  picture,  as  they  then  glowed  on  my 
£a:icy  ! By  heavens  ! you  would  think  the  mimic 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


89 


copy  fabulous  ; “ the  celestial  visitant”  of  an  over- 
heated imagination.  Yet,  as  if  the  independent 
witchery  of  the  lovely  minstrel  was  not  in  itself 
all,  all-sufficient,  at  the  back  of  her  chair  stood 
the  grotesque  figure  of  her  antiquated  nurse.  O ! 
the  precious  contrast.  And  yet  it  heightened,  it 
finished  the  picture. 

While  thus  entranced  in  breathless  observation, 
endeavouring  to  support  my  precarious  tenement, 
and  to  prolong  this  rich  feast  of  the  senses  and 
the  soul,  the  loose  stones  on  which  I tottered 
gave  way  under  my  feet,  and  impulsively  clinging 
to  the  wood  work  of  the  casement,  it  mouldered 
in  my  grasp.  I fell — but  before  1 reached  the 
earth  I was  bereft  of  sense.  With  its  return  I 
found  myself  in  a large  apartment,  stretched  on  - 
a bed,  and  supported  in  the  arms  of  the  Prince  of 
Inismore  ! his  hand  was  pressed  to  my  bleeding 
temple,  while  the  priest  applied  a styptic  to  the 
wound  it  had  received ; and  the  nurse  was  enga- 
ged  in  binding  up  my  arm,  which  had  been  dread- 
fully bruised  and  fractured  a little  above  the  wrist. 
Some  domestics,  with  an  air  of  mingled  concern 
and  curiosity,  surrounded  my  couch  ; and  at  hei 
father’s  side  stood  the  Lady  Glorvina,  her  looks 
pale  and  disordered — her  trembling  hands  busily 
employed  in  preparing  bandages,  for  which  ray 
skilful  doctress  impatiently  called. 

While  my  mind  almost  doubted  the  evidence  of 
my  senses,  and  a physical  conviction  alone  pairi’* 
fvlly  proved  to  me  the  reality  of  all  I beheld,  my 

/ 9# 


90 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


wandering,  wondering  eyes  met  those  ol’  the 
Prince  of  Inismore  ! A volume  of  pity  and  be- 
nevolence was  registered  in  their  glance  ; nor 
were  none,  I suppose,  inexp  'essive  of  my  feel- 
ings, tor  he  thus  replied  to  tliom  : 

“Pc  of  good  cheer,  young  stranger  ; you  are 
in  no  danger  ; be  composed  ; be  confident ; con- 
ceive yourself  in  the  midst  of  friends  ; for  you 
are  surrounded  by  those  who  would  wish  to  be 
con-^idered  as  such.” 

I attempted  to  speak,  but  my  voice  faltered  ; 
my  tongue  was  nerveless  ; my  mouth  dry  and 
parched.  A trembling  hand  presented  a cordial 
to  my  lips.  I qualfed  the  philtre,  and  fixed  my 
eyes  on  the  face  of  my  ministering  angel.  That 
angel  was  Glorvina  ! 1 closed  them,  and  sunk  on 
the  bosom  of  her  father. 

“ Oh,  he  faints  again  !”  cried  a sweet  and 
plaintive  voice. 

“ On  the  contrary,”  replied  the  priest,  “ the 
weariness  of  acute  pain  something  subsided,  is 
lulling  him  into  a soft  repose  ; for  see,  the  colour 
reanimates  his  cheek,  and  his  pulse  quickens.” 

“ It  indeed  beats  most  wildly,”  returned  the 
sweet  physician  ; for  the  pulse  which  responded 
to  her  finger’s  thrilling  pressure  moved  with  no 
languid  throb. 

“ Let  us  retire,”  added  the  priest,  “ all  danger 
is  now’  thank  heaven,  over ; and  repose  and 
quiet  the  most  salutary  requisites  for  our  patient.” 

At  these  w ords  he  arose  from  my  bedside,  and 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  9l 

Aie  Prince,  gently  withdrawing  his  supporting 
arms,  laid  my  head  upon  the  pillow.  In  a mo- 
ment all  was  deathlike  stillness,  and  stealing  a 
glance  from  under  my  half  closed  eyes,  I found 
myself  alone  with  my  skilful  doctress,  the  nurse, 
who,  shading  the  taper’s  light  from  the  bed,  had 
taken  her  distaff  and  seated  herself  on  a stool 
at  some  distance. 

This  was  a golden  respite  to  feelings  wound 
up  to  that  vehement  excess  which  forbade  ail 
expression,  which'  left  my  tongue  powerless, 
while  my  heart  overflowed  with  emotion  the 
most  powerful. 

Good  God  ! I,  the  son  of  Lord  M—- , the 

hereditary  object  of  hereditary  detestation,  be- 
neath the  roof  of  my  implacable  enemy!  Sup- 
ported in  his  arms  ; relieved  from  anguish  by 
his  charitable  attention  ; honoured  by  the  solici- 
tude of  his  lovely  daughter  ; overwhelmed  by 
the  charitable  exertions  of  his  whole  family;  and 
reduced  to  that  bodily  infirmity  that  would  of  ne- 
cessity oblige  me  to  continue  for  some  time  the 
object  of  their  beneficent  attentions. 

What  a series  of  emotions  did  this  conviction 
awaken  in  my  heart ! Emotions  of  a character, 
an  energy,  long  unknown  to  my  apathized  feel- 
ings ; while  gratitude  to  those  who  had  drawn 
them  into  existence,  combined  with  the  interest, 
the  curiosity,  the  admiration  they  had  awakened, 
tended  to  confirm  my  irresistible  desire  of  per- 
petuating the  immunities  I enjoyed,  as  the  guest 


THE  WILD  IRiSH  GIRL. 


9*J 

and  patieiit  of  the  Prince  and  his  daughter.  An»J, 
while  the  touch  of  this  Wild  Irish  Girl’s  hand 
thrilled  on  every  sense,  while  her  voice  of  ten- 
derest  pity  muriniired  on  my  ear,  and  I secretlv 
triumphed  over  the  prejudices  of  her  father,  I 
would  not  have  exchanged  my  broken  arm  and 
_ wounded  temple  for  the  strongest  limb  and  sound- 
est head  in  the  kingdom  ; but  the  same  chance 
which  threw  me  in  the  supporting  arms  of  the 
irascible  Prince,  might  betray  to  him  in  the  per- 
son of  his  patient,  the  son  of  his  hereditary  ene- 
my : it  was  at  least  probable  he  would  make 
some  inquiries  relative  to  the  object  of  his  be- 
nevolence, and  the  singular  cause  which  render- 
ed him  such ; it  was  therefore  a necessary  policy 
in  me  to  be  provided  against  this  scrutiny. 

Already  deep  in  adventure,  a thousand  sedu- 
cing reasons  were  suggested  by  my  newly-awa- 
kened heart  to  go  on  with  the  romance,  and  to 
secure  for  my  farther  residence  in  the  castle, 
that  interest,  which,  if  known  to  be  the  son  of 

Lord  M , I must  eventually  have  forfeited, 

for  the  cold  version  of  irreclaimable  prejudice. 
The  imposition  was  at  least  innocent,  and  mighi 
tend  to  future  and  mutual  advantage  ; and  aftei 
the  ideal  assumption  of  a thousand  fictitious  char- 
acters, 1 at  last  fixed  on  that  of  an  itinerant  artist, 
as  consonant  to  my  most  cultivated  talent,  and  to 
the  testimony  of  those  witnesses  which  1 had 
fortunately  brought  with  me,  namely  my  draw- 
ing-book, pencils,  &c.,  &c.,  self-nominated//enry 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


93 


Mortimer,  to  answer  the  initials  on  my  linen,  the 
only  proofs  against  me,  for  1 had  not  even  a let- 
ter with  me. 

I was  now  armed  at  all  points  for  inspection  ; 
and  as  the  Prince  lived  in  a perfect  state  of  iso- 
lation, and  I was  unknown  in  the  country,  I en- 
tertained no  apprehensions  of  discovery  during 
the  time  I should  remain  at  the  castle  ; and  full 
of  hope,  strong  in  confidence,  but  wearied  by  in- 
cessant cogitation,  and  something  exhausted  by 
|)ain,  I fell  into  that  profound  slumber  I did  be- 
fore but  feign. 

'Pile  mid-day  beams  shone  brightly  through 
the  faded  tints  of  my  bed  curtains  before  I awa- 
kened the  following  morning,  after  a night  of 
such  fairy  charms  as  only  float  round  the  couch 
of 

“ Fancy  trained  in  bliss.’* 

The  nurse,  and  the  two  other  domestics,  re- 
lieved the  watch  at  my  bedside  during  the  night; 
and  when  I drew  back  the  curtain,  the  former 
complimented  me  on  my  somniferous  powers,  and 
in  the  usual  mode  of  inquiry,  but- in  a very  unu- 
sual accent  and  dialect,  addressed  me  with  much 
kindness  and  goodnatured  solicitude.  While  1 
was  endeavouring  to  express  my  gratitude  for 
her  attentions,  and,  what  seemed  most  acceptable 
to  her,  my  high  opinion  of  her  skill,  the  Father 
Director  entered. 

To  the  benevolent  mind,  distress  or  misfortune 


94 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


is  ever  a sufficient  claim  on  all  the  privileges  o1 
intimacy;  and  when  hather  John  seated  himself 
by  my  bedside,  affectionately  took  my  hand,  la- 
mented my  accident,  and  assured  me  of  my  im- 
proved looks,  it  was  with  an  air  so  kindly  famil- 
iar, so  tenderly  intimate,  that  it  was  impossible  to 
suspect  the  sound  of  his  voice  was  yet  a stranger 
to  my  ear. 

Prepared  and  collected,  as  soon  as  I had  ex- 
pressed my  sense  of  his  and  the  Prince’s  benev- 
olence, I briefly  related  my  feigned  story  ; and  in 
a few  minutes  I was  a young  Englishman,  by 
birth  a gentleman,  by  inevitable  misfortunes  re- 
duced to  a dependence  on  my  talents  for  a liveli- 
hood, and  by  profession  an  artist.  I added,  that 
I came  to  Ireland  to  take  views,  and  seize  some 
of  the  finest  features  of  its  landscapes ; that,  hav- 
ing heard  much  of  the  wildly  picturesque  charms 
of  the  northwest  coasts,  I had  penetrated  thus  far 
into  this  remote  corner  of  the  province  of  Con- 
naught ; that  the  uncommon  beauty  of  the  views 
surrounding  the  castle,  and  the  awful  magnificence 
of  its  ruins,  had  arrested  my  wanderings,  and  de- 
termined me  to  spend  some  days  in  its  vicinity  ; 
that,  having  attended  divine  service  the  preceding 
evening  in  the  chapel,  I continued  to  wander 
along  the  romantic  shores  of  Inismore,  and,  in  the 
adventuring  spirit  of  my  art,  had  climbed  part  of 
the  mouldering  ruins  of  the  castle  to  catch  a fine 
effect  of  light  and  shade,  produced  by  tlte  partial- 
ly veiled  beams  of  the  moon,  and  had  then  met 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


95 


with  the  accident  which  now  threw  me  on  the 
benevolence  of  the  Prince  of  Innismore  ; an  un- 
known, in  a strange  country,  with  a fractured 
limb,  a wounded  head,  and  a heart  oppressed  with 
the  sense  of  gratitude  under  which  it  laboured. 

o 

“ That  you  were  a stranger  and  a traveller,  who 
had  been  led  by  curiosity  or  devotion  to  visit  the 
chapel  of  Tnismore,”  said  the  priest,  “ we  were 
already  apprised  of,  by  the  peasant  who  brought 
to  the  castle  last  night  the  horse  and  valise  left  at 
his  cabin,  and  who  feared,  from  the  length  of  your 
absence,  some  accident  had  befallen  you.  What 
you  have  yourself  been  kind  enough  to  detail,  is 
precisely  what  will  prove  your  best  letter  of  rec- 
ommendation to  the  Prince.  Trust  me,  young 
gentleman,  that  your  standing  in  need  of  his  at- 
tention is  the  best  claim  you  could  make  on  it ; 
and  your  admiration  of  his  native  scenes,  of  that 
ancient  edifice,  the  monument  of  that  decayed  an- 
cestral splendour  still  dear  to  his  pride  ; and  your 
having  so  severely  suffered  through  an  anxiety  by 
which  he  must  be  flattered,  will  induce  him  to 
consider  himself  as  even  hound  to  administer  ev- 
ery attention  that  can  meliorate  the  unpleasantness 
of  your  present  situation. 

What  an  idea  did  this  give  me  of  the  character 
of  him  whose  heart  I once  believed  divested  of 
all  the  tender  feelings  of  humanity.  -Everything 
that  mine  could  dictate  on  the  subject  I endeav- 
oured to  express,  and,  borne  away  ly  the  vehe- 
mence of  my  feelings,  did  it  in  a manner  that 


96 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


more  than  once  fastened  the  eyes  of  Father  John 
on  my  face,  with  that  look  of  surprise  and  admi- 
ration which,  to  a delicate  mind,  is  more  gratify- 
ing  than  the  most  finished  verbal  eiilooinm. 

Stimulated  by  this  silent  approbation,  I insen- 
sibly stole  the  conversation  from  myself  to  a more 
general  theme  : one  thought  was  the  link  to  an- 
other — the  chain  of  discussion  gradually  extend- 
ed, and  before  the  nurse  brought  up  my  breakfast 
we  had  ranged  through  the  whole  circle  of  set- 
ences,  I found  that  this  intelligent  and  amiable 
being  had  trifled  a good  deal  in  his  young  days 
with  chemistry,  of  which  he  still  spoke  like  a lov- 
er who,  in  maturer  life,  fondly  dwells  on  the 
charms  of  that  object  who  first  awakened  the 
youthful  raptures  of  his  heart.  He  is  even  still 
an  enthusiast  in  botany,  and  as  free  from  monastic 
pedantry  as  he  is  rich  in  the  treasures  of  classic- 
al literature  and  the  elegancies  of  belles  lettres. 
His  feelings  even  yet  preserve  something  of  the 
ardour  of  youth,  and  in  his  mild  character  evi- 
dently appears  blended  a philosophical  knowl- 
edge of  human  nature,  with  the  most  perfect 
worldly  inexperience,  and  the  manly  intelligence 
of  a highly  gifted  mind,  with  the  sentiments  of  a 
recluse  and  the  simplicity  of  a child.  His  still 
ardent  mind  seemed  to  dilate  to  the  correspond- 
ence of  a kindred  intellect,  and  two  hours’  bed- 
side chit  chat,  with  all  the  unrestrained  freedom 
such  a situation  sanctions,  produced  a more  per- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GiRL. 


97 


lect  intimacy  than  an  age  would  probably  have  ef* 
lected  under  ditterent  circumstances.  . 

After  havinor  examined  and  dressed  the  wound- 

O 

ed  tem'ple,  which  he  declared  to  be  a mere  scratch, 
and  congratulated  me  on  the  apparent  convales- 
cence of  my  looks,  he  withdrew,  politely  excusing 
the  length  of  his  visit  by  pleading  the  charms  of 
my  conversation  as  the  cause  of  his  detention. 
There  is,  indeed,  an  evident  vein  of  French  su- 
avity flowing  through  his  manners,  that  convinced 
me  he  had  spent  some  years  of  his  life  in  that  re- 
gion of  the  graces.  I have  since  learned  that  he 
was  partly  educated  in  France;  so  that,  to  my  as- 
tonishment, I have  discovered  the  manners  of  a 
gentleman,  the  conversation  of  a scholar,  and 
the  sentiment  of  a philanthropist,  united  in  the 
character  of  an  Irish  priest. 

While  my  heart  throbbed  with  the  natural  sat 
isfaction  arising  from  the  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing awakened  an  interest  in  those  w^hom  it  was 

o . . ^ ^ 

my  ambition  to  interest,  my  female  Esculapius 
came  and  seated  herself  by  me  ; and  while  she 
talked  of  fevers,  inflammations,  and  the  Lord 
knows  what,  insisted  on  my  not  speaking  another 
word  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  Though  by  no 
means  appearing  to  labour  under  the  same  Pyth- 
agorean restraint  she  had  imposed  on  me  ; and 
after  having  extolled  her  own  surgical  pow'ers, 
her  celebrity  as  the  best  bone-setter  in  the  bar- 
ony, and  communicated  the  long  list  of  patients 


G 


9 


98 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


her  skill  had  saved,  her  tongue  at  last  rested  on 
the  only  theme  I was  inclined  to  hear. 

Arrah  ! now,  jevv^el,”  she  continued,  “ there 
is  our  Lady  Glorvina  now,  who  with  all  her  skill, 
and  knowing  every  leaf  that  grows,  why  she 
could  no  more  set  your  arm  than  she  could  break 
it.  Och!  it  was  herself  that  turned  white  when 
she  saw  the  blood  upon  your  face,  for  she  was 
the  first  to  hear  you  fall,  and  hasten  down  to 
have  you  picked  up  ; at  first,  faith,  we  thought 
you  were  a robber  ; but  it  was  all  one  to  her,  into 
the  castle  you  must  be  brought,  and  when  she 
saw  the  blood  spout  from  your  temple.  Holy  Vir- 
gin ! she  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  she  was 
kilt  dead  herself.” 

“ And  is  she,”  said  I,  in  the  selfishness  of  my 
heart,  “ is  she  always  thus  humanely  interested 
for  the  unfortunate  ?” 

“ Och!  it  is  she  that  is  tender  hearted  for  man 
or  beast,”  replied  my  companion.  “ I shall  nev- 
er forget  till  the  day  of  my  death,  nor  then  either, 
faith,  the  day  that  Kitty  Mulrooney’s  cow  was 
bogged:  you  must  know,  honey,  that  a bogged 
cow ” 

Unfortunately,  however,  the  episode  of  Kitty 
Mulrooney’s  cow  was  cut  short,  for  the  Prince 
now  entered,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  priest. 

Dull  indeed  must  be  every  feeling,  and  blunted 
every  recollective  faculty,  when  the  look,  the  air, 
the  smile  with  which  this  venerable  and  benevo- 
lent chieftain,  approaching  ray  bed,  and  kindly 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


99 


taking  me  by  the  hand,  addressed  me  in  the  sin- 
gular idiom  of  his  expressive  language. 

“ Young  man,’^  said  he,  “the  stranger’s  oest 
gift  is  upon  you,  for  the  eye  that  sees  you  for  the 
first  time,  wishes  it  may  not  be  the  last ; and  the 
ear  that  drinks  your  words,  grows  thirsty  as  i’. 
quads  them.  So  says  our  good  Father  John 
here,  for  you  have  made  him  your  friend  ere  you 
are  his  acquaintance  ; and  as  the  friend  of  my 
friend,  my  heart  opens  to  you;  you  are  welcome 
to  my  house  as  long  as  it  is  pleasant  to  you ; 
when  it  ceases  to  be  so,  we  will  part  with  you 
with  regret,  and  speed  your  journey  with  our 
wishes  and  our  prayers.” 

Could  my  heart  have  lent  its  eloquence  to  my 
lip — but  that  was  impossible  ; very  imperfect  in- 
deed was  the  justice  I did  to  my  feelings ; but  as 
my  peroration  was  a eulogium  on  these  roman- 
tic scenes  and  interesting  ruins,  the  contemplation 
of  which  I had  nearly  purchased  with  my  life, 
the  Prince  seemed  as  much  pleased  as  if  my 
gratitude  had  poured  forth  with  Ciceronean  elo- 
quence, and  he  replied, 

“ When  your  health  will  permit,  you  can  pur- 
sue here  uninterrupted  your  charming  art.  Once 
the  domains  of  Inismore  could  have  supplied  the 
painter’s  pencil  with  scenes  of  smiling  felicity, 
and  the  song  of  the  bard — with  many  a theme 
of  joy  and  triumph ; but  the  harp  can  only  mourn 
over  the  fallen  greatness  of  its  sons ; and  the 
pencil  has  nothing  left  to  delineate  but  the  ruinM 


100 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


wliich  shelter  the  gray  head  of  the  last  of  theii 
descendants.” 

These  words  were  pronounced  with  an  emo- 
tion that  shook  the  dilapidated  frame  of  the 
Prince,  and  the  tear  which  dimmed  the  spirit  of 
his  eye,  formed  an  associate  in  that  of  his  audi- 
tor. He  gazed  on  me  for  a moment  with  a look 
that  seemed  to  say,  “you  feel  for  me, then — yet 
you  are  an  Englishman  and  taking  the  arm  of 
Father  John,  he  walked  towards  a window  which 
commanded  a view  of  the  ocean,  whose  troubled 
bosom  beat  wildly  against  the  castle  cliffs. 

“ The  day  is  sad,”  said  he,  “ and  makes  the 
soul  gloomy : we  will  summon  O’Gallagher  to 
the  hall,  and  drive  away  sorrow  with  music.” 

Then  turning  to  me,  he  added,  with  a faint 
smile  “the  tones  of  the  Irish  harp  have  still  the 
power  to  breathe  a spirit  over  the  drooping  soul 
of  an  Irishman  ; but  if  its  strains  disturb  your 
repose,  command  its  silence  : the  pleasure  of  the 
host  always  rests  in  that  of  his  guest.” 

With  these  words,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
his  chaplain,  he  retired  ; while  the  nurse,  looking 
affectionately  after  him,  raised  her  hands  and 
exclaimed, 

“ Och ! there  you  go,  and  may  the  blessing  of  the 
Holy  Virgin  go  with  you,  for  it’s  yourself  that’s 
the  jewel  of  a Prince  !” 

The  impression  made  on  me  by  this  brief  but 
interesting  interview,  is  not  to  be  expressed. 
You  should  see  the  figure,  the  countenance,  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


101 


dress  of  the  Prince  ; the  appropriate  scenery  of 
the  old  Gothic  chamber,  the  characteristic  ap* 
pearance  of  the  priest  and  the  nurse,  to  under* 
stand  the  combined  and  forcible  effect  the  whole 
produced. 

Yet,  though  experiencing  a pleasurable  emo- 
tion, strong  as  it  was  novel,  there  was  still  one 
little  wakeful  wish  throbbing  vaguely  at  my  heart. 

Was  it  possible  that  my  chilled,  my  sated  mis- 
anthropic feelings,  still  sent  forth  one  sigh  of 
wishful  solicitude  for  woman’s  dangerous  pres- 
ence ? No,  the  sentiment  the  daughter  of  the 
Prince  inspired,  only  made  di.  part  in  that  general 
feeling  of  curiosity,  which  every  thing  in  this 
new  region  of  wonders  continued  to  nourish  into 
existence.  What  had  I to  expect  from  the  un- 
polished manners,  the  confined  ideas  of  this 
Wild  Irish  Girl  ? Deprived  of  alUthose  touching 
allurements  which  society  only  gives  ; reared  in 
wilds  and  solitudes,  with  no  other  associates  than 
her  nurse,  her  confessor,  and  her  father ; endow- 
ed indeed  by  nature  with  some  personal  gifts,  set 
off  by  the  advantage  of  a singular  and  character- 
istic dress,  for  which  she  is  indebted  to  whim 
and  natural  prejudice,  rather  than  native  taste  : 
— I,  who  had  fled  in  disgust  even  from  those  to 
whose  natural  attraction  the  bewitching  blandish- 
ments of  education,  the  brilliant  polish  of  fashion, 
and  the  dazzling  splendour  of  real  rank,  contribu* 
led  their  potent  spells. 

And  yet,  the  roses  of  Florida,  though  the  fair 


102  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

est  in  the  universe,  and  springing  from  the  richest 
soil,  emit  no  fragrance ; while  the  mountain 
violet,  rearing  its  timid  form  from  a steril  bed, 
flings  on  the  morning  breeze  the  most  delicious 
perfume. 

While  given  up  to  such  reflections  as  these — 
while  the  sound  of  the  Irish  harp  arose  from  the 
hall  below,  and  the  nurse  muttered  her  prayers 
in  Irish  over  her  beads  by  my  side,  I fell  into  a 
gentle  slumber,  in  which  I dreamed  that  the 
Princess  of  Inismore  approached  my  bed,  drew 
aside  the  curtains,  and  raising  her  veil,  discover- 
ed a face  I had  hitherto  rather  guessed  at  than 
seen.  Imagine  my  horror — it  was  the  face,  the 
head  of  a Gorgon! 

Awakened  by  the  sudden  and  terrific  emotion 
it  excited,  though  sti’ll  almost  motionless,  as  if 
from  the  eflecj^s  of  a nightmare  (which  in  fact, 
from  the  position  I lay  in,  had  oppressed  me  in 
the  form  of  the  Princess)  I cast  my  eyes  through 
a fracture  in  the  old  damask  drapery  of  my  bed, 
and  beheld — not  the  horrid  spectre  of  my  recent 
dream,  but  the  form  of  a cherub  hovering  near 
my  pillow — it  was  the  Lady  Glorvina  herself! 
Oh ! how  I trembled  lest  the  fair  image  should 
only  be  the  vision  of  my  slumber : I scarcely 
dared  to  breathe,  lest  it  should  dissolve. 

She  was  seated  on  the  nurse’s  little  stool,  her 
elbow  resting  on  her  knee,  her  cheek  reclined 
u[)on  her  hand : for  once  the  wish  of  Romeo 
appeared  no  hyperbcla. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


103 


Some  snowdrops  lay  scattered  in  her  lap,  on 
which  her  downcast  eyes  shed  their  beams  ; as 
thoii2:h  she  moralized  over  the  modest  blossoms, 
which,  in  fate  a delecacy,  resembled  herself. 
Changing  her  pensive  attitude,  she  collected 
them  into  a bunch,  and  sighed,  and  waved  her 
head  as  she  gazed  on  them.  The  dew  that  tremb- 
led  on  their  leaves  seemed  to  have  flowed  from  a 
richer  source  than  the  exhalation  of  the  morn- 
ing’s vapour — for  the  flowers  are  faded — but  the 
drops  that  gem’d  them  are  fresh. 

At  that  moment  the  possession  of  a little  king- 
dom would  have  been  less  desirable  to  me,  than 
the  knowledge  of  that  association  of  ideas  and 
feelings  which  the  contemplation  of  these  honour- 
ed flowers  awakened.  At  last,  with  a tender 
smile,  she  raised  them  to  her  lip  and  sighed,  and 
placed  them  in  her  bosom ; then  softly  drew  aside 
my  curtain.  I feigned  the  stillness  of  death — 
yet  the  curtain  remained  unclosed— many  minutes 
elapsed — I ventured  to  unseal  my  eyes,  and  met 
the  soul  dissolving  glance  of  my  sweet  attendant 
spirit,  who  seemed  to  gaze  intently  on  her  charge. 
Emotion  on  my  part  the  most  delicious,  on  hers 
the  most  modestly  confused,  for  a moment  pre- 
vented all  presence  of  mind;  the  beautiful  arm 
still  supported  the  curtain — my  ardent  gaze  was 
still  riveted  on  a face  alternately  suffused  with 
the  electric  flashes  of  red  and  white.  At  last 
ihe  curtain  fell,  the  priest  entered,  and  the  vision, 
the  sweetest,  brightest  vision  of  my  life,  dissolved  ! 


104 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Glorvina  sprung  towards  her  tutor,  and  told 
him  aloud,  that  the  nurse  had  entreated  her  to 
take  her  place,  while  she  descended  to  dinner. 

“ And  no  place  can  become  thee  better,  my 
child,”  said  the  priest,  “ than  that  which  fixes 
thee  by  the  couch  of  suffering  and  sickness.” 

“ However,”  said  Glorvina,  smiling,  I will 
gratify  you  by  resigning  for  the  present  in  your 
favour ;”  and  away  she  flew  speaking  in  Irish  to 
the  nurse,  who  passed  her  at  the  door. 

The  benevolent  confessor  then  approached, 
and  seated  himself  beside  my  bed,  with  that  pre- 
meditated air  of  chit-chat  sociality,  that  it  went 
to  my  soul  to  disappoint  him.  But  the  thing  was 
impossible,  to  have  tamely  conversed  in  mortal  lan- 
guage on  mortal  subjects,  after  having  held  ‘‘  high 
communion”  with  an  etherial  spkit ; when  a sigh, 
a tear,  a glance,  were  the  delicious  vehicles  of 
our  souls’  secret  intercourse — to  stoop  from  this 
colloquy  sublime  !”  I could  as  soon  have  deliv- 
ered a logical  essay  on  identity  and  adversity,  or 
any  other  subject  equally  interesting  to  the  heart 
and  imagination. 

I therefore  closed  my  eyes,  and  breathed  most 
sonorously  : the  good  priest  drew  the  curtain  and 
retired  on  tip-toe,  and  the  nurse  once  more  took 
her  distaff,  and,  for  her  sins,  was  silent. 

These  good  people  must  certainly  think  me  a 
second  Epimenides,  for  I have  done  nothing  but 
sleep,  or  feign  to  sleep,  since  I have  been  thrown 
amongst  them. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  , 


105 


LETTER  VI. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I HAVE  already  passed  four  days  beneath  this 
hospitable  roof.  On  the  third,  a slight  fever  with 
which  I had  been  threatened  passed  off,  my  head 
was  disincumbered,  and  on  the  fourth  I was  able 
to  leave  my  bed,  and  to  scribble  thus  far  of  my 
journal.  Yet  these  kind  solicitous  beings  will 
not  suffer  me  to  leave  my  room,  and  still  the 
nujse  at  intervals  gives  me  the  pleasure  of  her 
society,  and  hums  old  cronans,  or  amuses  me  with 
what  she  calls  a little  shanaos*  as  she  plies  her 
distaff ; while  the  priest  frequently  indulges  me 
with  his  interesting  and  intelligent  conversation. 
The  good  man  is  a great  logician,  and  fond  of 
displaying  his  metaphysical  prowess,  where  he 
feels  that  he  is  understood,  and  we  diurn allv  go 
over  infinity,  space,  and  duration,  with  innate, 
simple,  and  complex  idea,  until  our  own  are  ex- 
hausted in  the  discussion ; and  then  we  general- 
ly relax  with  Ovid,  or  trifle  with  Horace  and  Ti- 
bullus, for  nothing  can  be  less  austerely  pious 
than  this  cheerful  genile  being : nothing  can  be 

♦ A term  in  very  general  use  in  Ireland,  and  is  applied 
to  a kind  of  geneaiogiail  chit  chat,  or  talking  over  family 
antiquity,  family  anecdotes,  descent,  alliances, '&c.,  to 
wiiich  the  lower,  as  well  as  the  higher  order  of  Irish  in  the 
provincial  parts  are  much  adr'irted. 


!06 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


more  innocent  than  his  life  ; nothing  more  liberal 
than  his  sentiments. 

The  Prince,  too,  has  thrice  honoured  me  with 
a visit.  Although  he  possesses  nothing  of  the 
erudition  which  distinguishes  his  all-intelligent 
chaplain,  yet  there  is  a peculiar  charm,  a spell 
in  his  conversation,  that  is  irresistibly  fascina- 
ting ; and  chiefly  arising,  I believe,  from  the  curi- 
ous felicity  of  his  expressions,  the  originality  of 
the  ideas  they  clothe,  the  strength  and  energy  of 
his  delivery,  and  the  enthusiasm  and  simplicity 
of  his  manners. 

He  seems  not  so  much  to  speak  the  English 
language,  as  literally  to  translate  the  Irish  ; and 
he  borrows  so  much  and  so  happily  from  the  pe- 
culiar idiom  of  his  vernacular  tongue,  that  though 
his  conversation  was  deficient  in  matter,  it  would 
still  possess  a singular  interest  from  its  manner. 
But  it  is  far  otherwise,  there  is  indeed  in  the  uncul- 
tivated mind  of  this  man,  much  of  the  vivida  vis 
anima  of  native  genius,  which  neither  time  nor 
misfortune  has  wholly  damped,  and  which  fre- 
quently flings  the  brightest  coruscations  of  thought 
over  the  generally  pensive  tone  that  pervades  his 
conversation.  The  extent  of  his  knowledge  on 
subjects  of  national  interest  is  indeed  wonderful ; 
his  memory  is  rich  in  oral  tradition,  and  most 
happily  faithful  to  the  history  and  antiquities  of 
his  country,  which  notwithstanding  peevish  com- 
plaints of  its  degeneracy,  he  still  loves  with 
idolatrous  fondness.  On  these  subjects  he  is  al- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


i07 


ways  borne  away,  but  upon  no  subject  does  he 
speak  with  coolness  or  moderation  ; he  is  always 
in  extremes,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  gestures 
and  looks  ever  corresponds  to  the  energy  of  Ids 
expressions  or  sentiments.  Yet  he  possesses  an 
infinite  deal  of  that  suamto  in  modo,  so  prevailing 
and  insinuating  even  among  the  lower  classes 
of  this  country ; and  his  natural,  or  I should 
rather  say  his  national  politeness,  frequently  in 
duces  him  to  make  the  art  in  which  he  supposf/s 
me  to  excel,  the  topic  of  our  conversation.  While 
he  speaks  in  rapture  of  the  many  fine  views  this 
country  afibrds  to  the  genius  of  the  painter,  he 
dwells  with  melancholy  pleasure  on  the  innumer- 
able ruined  palaces  and  abbeys  which  lay  scat- 
tered amidst  the  richest  scenes  of  this  romantic 
province:  he  generally  thus  concludes  with  a 
melancholy  apostrophe  : 

“ But  the  splendid  dwelling  of  princely  gran- 
deur, the  awful  asylum  of  monastic  piety,  are 
just  mouldering  into  oblivion  with  the  memory 
of  those  they  once  sheltered.  The  sons  of  little 
men  triumph  over  those  whose  arm  was  strong 
in  war,  and  whose  vfice  breathed  no  irnpotem 
command  ; and  the  descendant  of  the  mighty 
chieftain  has  nothing  left  to  distinguish  him  from 
the  son  of  the  peasant,  but  the  decaying  ruins  of 
his  ancestor’s  castle ; while  the  blasts  of  a few 
storms,  and  the  pressure  of  a few  years,  shall 
even  of  them  leave  scarce  a wreck  to  tell  the 
traveller  the  mournful  tale  of  fallen  oreatness.” 

o 


108 


THE  W LD  IRISH  GIRL. 


When  I showed  him  a sketch  1 had  made  of 
the  castle  of  Inismore,  on  the  evening  I had  first 
seen  it  from  the  mountain’s  summit,  he  seemed 
much  gratified,  and  warmly  commended  its  fideli- 
ty, shaking  his  head  as  he  contemplated  it,  and 
impressively  exclaiming. 

“ Many  a morning’s  sun  has  seen  me  climb  that  ^ 
mountain  in  my  boyish  days,  to  contemplate  these 
, ruins,  accompanied  by  an  old  follower  of  the 
family,  who  possessed  many  strange  stories  of 
the  feats  of  my  ancestors,  with  which  I was  then 
greatly  delighted.  And  then  I dreamed  of  my 
arm  wielding  the  spear  in  war,  and  my  hall  re- 
sounding to  the  song  of  the  bard,  and  the  mirth 
of  the  feast ; but  it  was  only  a dream  !” 

As  the  injury  sustained  by  my  left  arm  (which 
is  in  a state  of  rapid  convalescence)  is  no  im- 
pediment to  the  exertions  of  my  right,  we  have 
already  talked  over  the  various  views  1 am  to 
take,  and  he  enters  into  every  little  plan  with 
that  enthusiasm,  which  childhood  betrays  in  the 
pursuit  of  some  novel  object,  and  seems  wonder- 
fully gratified  in  the  idea  of  thus  perpetuating 
the  fast  decaying  features  of  this  “ time  honour- 
ed” edifice. 

The  priest  assures  me,  I am  distinguished  in  a 
particular  manner  by  the  partiality  and  conde- 
scension of  the  Prince. 

“ As  a man  of  genius,”  said  he  this  morning, 

“ you  have  awakened  a stronger  interest  in  his 
breast,  than  if  you  had  presented  him  with  letters 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  109 

patent  of  your  nobility,  except,  indeed,  you  had 
deri\  ed  them  from  Milesius  himself.” 

“ An  enthusiastic  love  of  talent  is  one  of  the  dis- 
tinguishing features  of  the  true  ancient  Irisluchar- 
acter ; and  independent  of  your  general  acquire- 
ments, your  professional  abilities,  coinciding  with 
his  ruling  passion,  secures  you  a larger  portion 
of  his  esteem  and  regard  than  he  generally  lav- 
ishes upon  any  stranger,  and  almost  incredible, 
considering  you  are  an  Englishman.  But  nation- 
al prejudice  ceases  to  operate  when  individual 
worth  calls  for  approbation;  and  an  Irishman  sel- 
dom asks  or  considers  the  country  of  him  whose 
sufferings  appeal  to  his  humanity,  whose  genius 
makes  a claim  on  his  applause.” 

But,  my  good  friend,  while  I am  thus  ingra- 
tiating myself  with  the  father,  the  daughter 
(either  self-wrapped  in  proud  reserve,  or  deter- 
mined to  do  away  that  temerity  she  may  have 
falsely  supposed  her  condescension  and  pity  awak- 
ened) has  not  appeared  even  at  the  door  of  my 
chamber  with  a charitable  inquiry  for  my  health, 
since  our  last  silent,  but  eloquent  interview  ; and 
I have  lived  for  these  three  days  on  the  recollec- 
tion of  those  precious  moments  which  gave  her 
to  my  view,  as  I last  beheld  her,  like  the  angel 
of  pity  hovering  round  the  pillow  of  mortal  suf- 
fering. 

Ah ! you  will  say,  this  is  not  tlie  language  of 
an  apathist,  of  one  “ whom  man  delighteth  not, 
nor  woman  either.” 


10 


110 


THE  W:LD  IRISH  GIRI.. 


But  let.  not  your  vivid  imagination  thus  hnny 
over  at  once  the  scale  of  my  feelings  from  one 
extreme  to  the  other,  forgetting  the  many  inter- 
mediate degrees  that  lie  between  the  deadly  chill 
of  the  coldest,  and  the  burning  ardour  of  the  most 
vehement  of  all  human  sentiments. 

If  I am  less  an  apathist,  which  I am  willing 
to  confess,  trust  me,  I am  not  a whit  more  the 
lover. — Lover  ! — Preposterous  ! I am  merely  in- 
terested for  this  girl  on  a philosophical  principle. 
I long  to  study  the  purely  national,  natural  char- 
acter of  an  Irish  woman:  In  fine,  I long  to  be- 
hold any  woman  in  such  lights  and  shades  of 
mind,  temper,  and  disposition,  as  nature  has 
originally  formed  her  in.  Hitherto  I have  only 
met  servile  copies,  sketched  by  the  finger  of  art 
and  finished  off  by  the  polished  touch  of  fashion 
I fear,  however,  that  this  girl  is  already  spoiled 
by  the  species  of  education  she  has  received. 
I’he  priest  has  more  than  once  spoke  of  her  eru- 
dition ! Erudition ! the  pedantry  of  a school-boy 
of  the  third  class,  I suppose.  How  much  must  a 
woman  lose,  and  how  little  can  she  gain,  by  that 
commutation  which  gives  her  our  acquirements 
for  her  own  graces!  For  my  part,  you  know,  I 
have  always  kept  clear  of  the  hashleus ; and 
would  prefer  one  playful  charm  of  a Ninon  to  all 
the  classic  lore  of  ? Dacier, 

But  you  will  say,  I could  scarcely  come  off 
worse  with  the  pedants  than  I did  with  the 
dunces  •,  and  you  will  say  right.  And,  to  confess 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


11] 


the  truth,  I believe  I should  have  been  easily  led 
to  desert  the  standard  of  the  pretty  fools,  had  fe- 
male pedantry  ever  stole  on  iny  heart  under  such 
a form  as  tbe  liiUe  sm-disant  Princess  of  Inis- 
inore.  ’Tis  indeed,  impossible  to  look  less  like 
one  who  spouts  Latin  with  the  priest  of  the  parish 
than  this  same  Glorvina.  There  is  something 
beautifully  wild  about  her  air  and  look,  that  is  in- 
describable ; and,  without  a very  perfect  regulari- 
ty of  feature,  she  * possesses  that  effulgency  of 
countenance,  that  bright  lumine  purpureo,  which 
poetry  assigns  to  the  dazzling  emanations  of  di- 
vine beauty.  In  short,  there  are  a thousand  little 
fugitive  graces  playing  around  her,  which  are  not 
beauty,  but  the  cause  of  it ; and  were  I to  per- 
sonify the  word  spell,  she  should  sit  for  the  pic- 
ture  A thousand  times  she  swims 

before  my  sight,  as  I last  beheld  her ; her  locks 
of  living  gold  parting  on  her  brow  of  snow,  yet 
seeming  to  separate  with  reluctance,  as  they  were 
lightly  shaken  off  with  that  motion  of  the  heady 
at  once  so  infantile  and  graceful ; a motion  twice 
put  into  play,  as  her  recumbent  attitude  poured 
the  luxuriancy  of  her  tresses  over  her  face  and 
neck,  for  she  was  unveiled,  and  a small  gold  bod- 
kin was  unequal  to  support  the  redundancy  of  that 
beautiful  hair,  which  I more  than  once  apostro 
phized  in  the  words  of  Petrarch: 

**  Onde  totse  amor  I’oro  e di  qual  vena 

Per  far  due  treccio  bionde.  Az.c. 


1 12  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

1 understand  a servant  is  dispatched  once  a 
«veek  to  the  next  post  town,  with  and  for  letters  j 
and  this  intelligence  absolutely  amazed  me  ; foi 
I am  astonished  that  these  beings,  who 

“ Look  not  like  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth, 

And  yet  are  on  it,’' 

should  hold  an  intercourse  with  the  world. 

This  is  post  day,  and  this  packet  is  at  last  des- 
tined to  be  finished  and  dispatched.  On  looking 
it  over,  the  title  of  princes  and  princess  so  often 
occur,  that  I could  almost  fancy  myself  at  the 
court  of  some  foreign  potentate,  basking  in  the 
warm  sunshine  of  regal  favour,  instead  of  being 
the  chance  guest  of  a poor  Irish  gentleman,  who 
lives  on  the  produce  of  a few  rented --farms,  and, 
infected  with  a species  of  pleasant  mania,  be- 
lieves himself  as  much  a prince  as  the  heir 
apparent  of  boundless  empire  and  exhaustless 
treasures. 

Adieu  ! Direct  as  usual : for  though  I certain- 
ly mean  to  accept  the  invitation  of  a Prince,  yet 
I intend,  in  a few  days,  to  return  home,  to  obviate 
suspicion,  and  to  have  my  books  and  wardrobe 
removed  to  the  Lodge,  which  now  possesses  a 
stronger  magnet  of  attraction  than  when  I first 
fixed  bn  it  as  my  headquarters. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


113 


LETTER  VII. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

This  is  the  sixth  day  of  my  convalescence,  and 
tho  first  of  my  descent  from  my  western  tower; 
for  I find  it  is  literally  in  a tower,  or  turret^ 
which  terminates  a wing  of  these  ruins,  I have 
been  lodged.  These  good  people,  however,  would 
have  persuaded  me  into  the  possession  of  a slow 
fever,  and  confined  me  to  my  room  another  day, 
had  not  the  harp  of  Glorvina,  with  “ supernatural 
solicitings,”  spoken  more  irresistibly  to  my  heart 
than  all  their  eloquence. 

I have  just  made  my  toilette,  for  the  first  time 
since  my  arrival  at  the  castle ; and  with  a black 
ribbon  of  the  nurse’s  across  my  forehead,  and  a 
silk  handkerchief  of  the  priest’s  supporting  my 
arm,  with  my  own  “ customary  suit  of  solemn 
black,”  tintless  cheek,  languid  eye,  and  pensive 
air,  I looked  indeed  as  though  “ melancholy  had 
marked  me  for  her  own  or  an  excellent  per- 
sonification of  “ pining  atrophy”  in  its  last  stage 
of  decline. 

While  I contemplated  my  memento  mori  of  a 
figure  in  the  glass,  I heard  a harp  tuning  in  an 
underneath  apartment.  The  Prince  I knew  hid 
not  yet  left  his  bed,  for  his  infirmities  seldom  pei- 
mit  him  to  rise  early ; the  priest  had  rode  out ; 
and  the  venerable  figure  of  the  old  harper  at  that 
H 10* 


114 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


moment  gare  a fine  effect  to  a ruined  arcli  imdei 
which  he  was  passing,  led  by  a boy,  just  oj)po- 
site  my  window.  “ It  is  Glor\Hna  then,”  said  - 
I,  “ and  alone !”  and  down  I sallied ; but  not 
with  half  the  intrepidity  that  Sir  Bertram  follow- 
ed the  mysterious  blue  flame  along  the  corridors 
of  the  enchanted  castle. 

A thousand  times  since  my  arrival  in  this  trans- 
mundane  region,  I have  had  reason  to  feel  how 
much  we  are  the  creatures  of  situation ; how  in- 
sensibly our  minds  and  our  feelings  take  their 
tone  from  the  influence  of  existinof  circumstances. 
You  have  seen  me  frequently  the  very  prototype 
of  nonchalence,  in  the  midst  of  a circle  of  birth- 
day beauties,  that  might  have  put  the  fabled 
charms  of  the  Mount  Ida  triumviri  to  the  blush 
of  inferiority.  Yet  here  I am,  groping  my  way 
down  the  dismantled  stone  stairs  of  a ruined 
castle  in  the  wilds  of  Connaught,  with  my  heart 
fluttering  like  the  pulse  of  green  eighteen,  in  the 
presence  of  its  first  love,  merely  because  on  the 
point  of  appearing  before  a simple  rusticated  girl, 
whose  father  calls  himself  a prince^  with  a pota- 
toe  ridge  for  his  dominions  ! O ! with  what  in- 
difference I should  have  met  her  in  the  drawing- 
room, or  at  the  opera ! — there  she  would  have 
been  merely  a woman  ! — here  she  is  the  fairy 
vision  of  my  heated  fancy. 

Well,  having  finished  the  same  circuitous  jour 
ney  that  a squirrel  diurnally  performs  in  his  cage 
I found  myself  landed  in  a stone  p^  «Niaye,  which 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


115 


was  terniinated  by  the  identical  chamler  ol’  fatal 
memory  already  mentioned,  and  through  the  vista 
of  a huge  folding  do‘3r,  partly  thrown  back,  beheld 
the  form  of  Glorvina  ! She  was  alone,  and  bending 
over  her  harp  ; one  arm  was  gracefully  thrown 
over  the  instrument,  which  she  was  tuning"; 
with  the  other  she  was  lightly  modulating  on  its 
chords. 

Too  timid  to  proceed,  yet  unwilling  to  retreat,  I 
was  still  hovering  near  the  door,  when  turning 
round,  she  observed  me,  and  I advanced.  She 
blushed  to  the  eyes,  and  returned  my  profound 
bow  with  a slight  inclination  of  the  head,  as  if 
I were  unworthy  a more  marked  obeisance. 

Nothing  in  the  theory  of  sentiment  could  be 
more  diametrically  opposite,  than  the  bashful  in- 
dication of  that  crimson  blush,  and  the  haughty 
spirit  of  that  graceful  bow.  What  a logical  ana- 
lysis would  it  have  aftbrded  to  Father  John  on 
innate  and  acquired  ideas  ! Her  blush  was  the 
effusion  of  nature  ; her  bow  the  result  of  inculca- 
tion— the  one  spoke  the  native  woman  ; the  other 
the  ideal  princess. 

I endeavoured  to  apologize  for  my  intrusion  ; 
and  she,  in  a manner  that  amazed  me,  congratu- 
lated me  on  my  recovery  ; then  drawing  her  harp 
towards  her,  she  seated  herself  on  the  great 
Gothic  couch,  with  a motion  of  the  hand,  and  a 
look,  that  seemed  to  say,  “ there  is  room  for  you 
too.”  I bowed  my  acceptance  of  the  silent  wel- 
come invitation. 


116 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Behold  me  then  seated  tete-a-tete  with  this 
Irish  Princess  ! — my  right  arm  thrown  over  hei 
harp,  and  her  eyes  riveted  on  my  left. 

“ Do  you  still  feel  any  pain  from  it  said  she, 
so  naturally,  as  though  we  had  actually  been  dis- 
cussing the  accident  it  had  sustained. 

Would  you  believe  it!  1 never  thought  of  ma- 
king her  an  answer  ; but  fastened  my  eyes  on  her 
face.  For  a moment  she  raised  her  glance  to 
mine,  and  we  both  coloured,  as  if  she  read  there 
— I know  not  what ! 

“ I beg  your  pardon,”  said  T,  recovering  from 
the  spell  of  this  magic  glance — “ you  made  some 
observation.  Madam 

“ Not  that  I recollect,”  she  replied,  with  a slight 
confusion  of  manner,  and  running  her  finger  care- 
lessly over  the  chords  of  the  harp,  till  it  came  in 
contact  with  my  own,  which  hung  over  it.  The 
touch  circulated  like  electricity  through  every  vein. 
I impulsively  arose,  and  walked  to  the  window 
from  whence  I had  first  heard  the  tones  of  that  in- 
strument which  had  been  the  innocent  accessory 
to  my  present  unaccountable  emotion.  As  if  I 
were  measuring  the  altitude  of  my  fall,  I hung 
half  my  body  out  of  the  window,  thinking.  Hea- 
ven knows,  of  nothing  less  than  that  fall,  of  no- 
thing more  than  its  fair  cause,  until  abruptly 
drawing  in  my  dizzy  head,  1 perceived  her’s 
(such  a cherub  head  you  never  beheld  !)  leaning 
against  her  harp,  and  her  eye  directed  towards 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL  117 

me.  I know  not  why,  yet  I felt  at  once  confused 
and  gratified  by  this  observation. 

“ My  fall,”  said  I,  glad  of  something  to  say,  to 
relieve  my  school-boy  hashfulness,  “ was  greater 
than  I suspected.” 

“ It  was  dreadful !”  she  replied  shuddering 
“ What  could  have  led  you  to  so  perilous  a situ- 
ation ?” — 

“ That,”  1 returned,  “ which  has  led  to  more 
certain  destruction,  senses  more  strongly  fortified 
than  mine — the  voice  of  a syren  !” 

I then  briefly  related  to  her  the  rise,  decline, 
and  fall  of  my  physical  empire  ; obliged,  however, 
to  qualify  the  gallantry  of  my  debut  by  the  subse- 
quent plainness  of  my  narration,  for  the  delicate 
reserve  of  her  air  made  me  tremble,  lest  I had 
gone  too  far. 

By  heavens  I cannot  divest  myself  of  a feeling 
of  inferiority  in  her  presence,  as  though  I were 
actually  that  poor,  wandering,  unconnected  being 
I have  feigned  myself. 

My  compliment  was  received  with  a smile  and 
a blush  ; and  to  the  eulogium  which  rounded  my 
detail  on  the  benevolence  and  hospitality  of  the 
family  of  Inismore,  she  replied,  that  “ had  the 
accident  been  of  less  material  consequence  to  my- 
self, the  family  of  Inismore  must  have  rejoiced 
at  the  event  which  enriched  its  social  circle  \\  ith 
so  desirable  an  acquisition.” 

The  matter  of  this  little  politesse  was  nothing ; 
but  the  mam  er^  the  air,  wi  h which  it  was  deliv- 


JI8  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

ered  ! Wheie  can  she  have  acquired  this  ele 
gance  of  manner  ? — reared  amidst  rocks,  and 
woods,  aiid  mountains  ! deprived  of  all  those 
graceful  advantages  which  society  confers — a 
manner  too  that  is  at  perpetual  variance  with  her 
looks,  which  are  so  naif- — I had  almost  said  so 
wildly  simple — that  while  she  speaks  in  the  lan- 
guage of  a court,  she  looks  like  the  artless  inhab- 
itant of  a cottage  : — a smile,  and  a blush,  rushing 
to  her  cheek,  and  her  lip,  as  the  impulse  of  fancy 
or  feeling  directs,  even  when  smiles  and  blushes 
are  irrevalent  to  the  etiquette  of  the  moment. 

This  elegance  of  manner,  then,  must  be  the 
pure  result  of  elegance  of  soul  ; and  if  there  is 
a charm  in  woman,  I have  hitherto  vainly  sought, 
and  prized  beyond  all  I have  discovered,  it  is  this 
refined,  celestial,  native  elegance  of  soul,  which 
effusing  its  spell  through  every  thought,  word, 
and  motion,  of  its  enviable  possessor,  resembles 
the  peculiar  property  of  gold,  which  subtilely  in- 
sinuates itself  throuoh  the  most  minute  and  vari- 
ous  particles,  without  losing  any  thing  of  its  own 
intrinsic  nature  by  the  amalgamation. 

In  answer  to  the  flattering  observation  which 
had  elicited  this  digression  I replied : 

That  far  from  regretting  the  consequences,  I 
was  emamoured  of  an  accident  that  had  procured 
me  such  happiness  as  I now  enjoyed  (even 
with  the  risk  of  life  itself ;)  and  that  I believed 
there  were  few  who,  like  me,  would  not  prefer 
peril  to  security,  were  the  former  always  the  pur- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  119 

chase  of  such  fa  icity  as  the  latter,  at  least  on 
me,  had  never  bestowed. 

Whether  this  reply  savoured  too  much  of 
the  world’s  commonplace  gallantry,  or  that  she 
thought  there  was  more  of  the  head  than  the 
heart  in  it,  1 know  not ; but,  by  my  soul,  in  spite 
of  a certain  haughty  motion  of  the  head  not  un- 
frcquent  with  her,  I thought  she  looked  won- 
derfully inclined  to  laugh  in  my  face,  though  she 
primed  up  her  mouth,  and  fancied  she  looked  like 
a nun,  when  her  lip  pouted  with  the  smiling  arch- 
ness of  a Hebe. 

In  short,  I never  felt  more  in  all  its  luxury  the 
comfort  of  looking  like  a fool ; and  to  do  away 
the  no  very  agreeable  sensation  which  the  con- 
viction of  being  laughed  at  awakens,  as  a pis- 
aller^  I began  to  examine  the  harp,  and  expressed 
the  surprise  I felt  at  its  singular  construction. 

“ Are  you  fond  of  music  she  asked  with 
naivette. 

“ Sufficiently  so,”  said  I,  “to  risk  my  life  for 

it.” 

She  smiled,  and  cast  a look  at  the  window,  as 
much  as  to  say,  “ I understand  you.” 

As  I now  was  engaged  in  examining  her  harp, 
I observed  that  it  resembled  less  any  instrument 
of  that  kind  I had  seen,  than  the  drawing  of  the 
Davidic  lyre  in  Montfaucon. 

“ Then,”  said  she,  with  animation,  “ this  is 
another  collateral  proof  of  the  antiquity  of  its 
origin,  which  I never  before  heard  adduced,  and 


120 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


which  sanctions  that  universally  received  tradi 
lion  among  us,  by  which  we  learn,  that  we  are 
indebted  to  the  first  Milesian  colony  that  settled 
here  for  this  charming  instrument,  although  some 
modern  historians  suppose  that  we  obtained  it 
from  Scandinavia.”* 

“ Ail'd  is  this,  Madam,”  said  I,  ‘‘  the  original 
ancient  Irish  harp  ?” 

“ Not  exactly,  for  I have  strung  it  with  gut  in- 
stead of  wire,  merely  for  the  gratification  of  my 
own  ear ; but  it  is,  however,  precisely  the  same 
form  as  that  preserved  in  the  Irish  university, 
which  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of 
our  heroes,  Brian  Boru  ; for  the  warrior  and  the 
bard  often  united  in  the  character  of  our  kings, 
and  they  sung  the  triumphs  of  those  departed 
chiefs  whose  feats  they  emulated.” 

“ You  see,”  she  added  with  a smile,  while  my 
eager  glance  pursued  the  kindling  animation  of 
her  countenance  as  she  spoke, — ‘‘you  see,  that 
in  all  which  concerns  my  national  music^  I speak 
with  national  enthusiasm ; and  much  indeed  do 


* It  is  reserved  for  the  national  Lyre  of  Erin  only,  to 
claim  a title  independent  of  a Gothic  origin.  For  “ Clar- 
seach,”  is  the  only  Irish  epithet  for  the  harp,  a name  more 
in  unison  with  the  cithera  of  the  Greeks,  and  even  the 
ckinor  of  the  Hebrew,  than  the  Anglo-Saxon  harp.  I 
cannot  but  think  the  clarseach,  or  Irish  harp,  one  of  the 
most  ancient  instrumentB  we  have  among  us,  and  had  per- 
haps its  origin  in  remote  periods  of  antiquity.”-  -Dr.  Bed- 
ford’s Essay  on  the  construction,  &o.  of  the  Irish  Harp. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL, 


121 


we  stand  indebted  to  the  most  charming  of  all 
the  sciences  for  the  eminence  it  has  obtained  us  ; 
for  in  music  only^  do  you  English  allow  us  poor 
Irish  any  superiority;  and  therefore  your  King, 
who  made  the  har]^  the  armorial  bearing  of  Ire- 
land, perpetuated  our  former  musical  celebrity 
beyond  the  power  of  time  or  prejudice  to  destroy 
it.'- 

Not  for  the  world  would  I have  annihilated  the 
triumph  which  this  fancied  superiority  seemed 
to  give  to  this  patriotic  little  being,  by  telling  her, 
that  we  thought  as  little  of  the  music  of  her 
country,  as  of  every  thing  else  that  related  to  it; 
and  that  all  we  knew  of  the  style  of  its  melodies, 
reached  us  through  the  false  medium  of  comic 
airs,  sung  by  some  popular  actor,  who  in  coinci- 
dence with  his  author,  caricatures  those  national 
traits  he  attempts  to  delineate. 

I therefore  simply  told  her,  that  though  I doubt- 
ed not  the  former  musical  celebrity  of  her  coun- 
try, yet  that  I perceived  the  Bardic  order  in 
Wales  seemed  to  have  survived  the  tuneful  race 
of  Erin ; for  that  though  every  little  Cambrian 
village  had  its  harper,  I had  not  yet  met  with  one 
of  the  profession  in  Ireland. 

She  waved  her  head  with  a melancholy  air, 
and  replied — the  rapid  decline  of  the  Sons  of 
Song,  once  the  pride  of  our  country,  is  indeed 
very  evident ; and  the  tones  of  that  tender  and 
expressive  instrument  which  gave  birth  to  tnose^ 

11 


122 


TRE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


which  now  survive  them  in  hj;ppier  countries,  no 
longer  vibrates  in  our  own ; for  of  course  you  are 
not  igi>oraDt  that  the  importation  of  Irish  bards 
and  Irish  instruments,  into  Wales,*  by  Grijfith  ap 
Conan,  formed  an  epocha  in  Welch  music,  and 
awakened  there  a genius  of  style  in  composi- 
tion, which  still  breathes  a kindred  spirit  to  that 
from  whence  it  derived  its  being,  and  that  even 
the  invention  of  Scottish  music  is  given  to  Ire- 
land.”! 

“ Indeed,”  said  I,  “ I must  plead  ignorance  to 
this  singular  fact,  and  almost  to  every  other  con- 
nected with  this  now  to  me  most  interesting 
country.” 

“ Then  suffer  me,”  said  she,  with  a most  in- 
sinuating smile,  “ to  indulge  another  little  nation- 
al triumph  over  you,  by  informing  you,  that  we 
learn  from  musical  record,  that  the  first  piece  of 
music  ever  seen  in  score,  in  Great  Britain,  is  an 
air  sung  time  immemmorial  in  this  country  on  the 
opening  of  summer — an  air, which  though  anima- 
ted in  its  measure,  yet  still,  like  all  the  Irish  melo- 
dies, breathes  the  very  soul  of  melancholy.”^ 

♦ Cardoc  (of  Lhancarvan)  without  any  of  *hat  illiberal 
partiality  so  common  with  national  writers,  assures  us  that 
tlie  Irish  devised  all  the  instruments,  tunes,  and  measures, 
in  use  among  the  Welsh.  Cambrensis  is  even  more  copi- 
<ous  in  its  praise,  when  he  peremptorily  declares  that  thb 
Irish,  above  atiy  other  nation,  is  incomparably  skilled  in 
cymphonal  music. — Walker’s  Hist.  Mem.  of  the  Irish  Bards 

t See  Doctor  Campbell’s  Phil  Surv.  Letter  44 ; and 
Walker’s  Hist.  Irish  Bards,  p.  131,32. 

t Called  I in  Irish,  “Ta  an  Samradth  teachU”  “We 
.brought  Summer  along  with  us.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


123 


*•  And  do  your  melodies  then,  Madam,  breathe 
the  soul  of  melancholy  said  I. 

“ Our  national  music,”  she  returned,  ‘‘  like  our 
nationa.  character,  admits  of  no  medium  in  senti- 
ment : it  either  sinks  our  spirit  to  despondency, 
by  its  heartbreaking  pathos,  or  elevates  it  to  wild- 
ness by  its  exhilarating  animation. 

“ For  my  own  part,  1 confess  myself  the  vic- 
tim of  its  magic — an  Irish  planxty  cheers  me 
into  maddening  vivacity ; an  Irish  lamentation 
depresses  me  into  a sadness  of  melancholy  emo 
tion,  to  which  the  energy  of  despair  might  be 
deemed  comparative  felicity.” 

Imagine  how  I felt  while  she  spoke — but  you 
cannot  conceive  the  feelings  unless  you  beheld 
and  heard  the  object  who  inspired  them — unless 
you  watched  the  kindling  luminalion  of  her  coun- 
tenance, and  the  varying  hue  of  that  mutable 
complexion,  which  seemed  to  ebb  and  flow  to  the 
impulse  of  every  sentiment  she  expressed;  while 
her  round  and  sighing  voice  modulated  in  unison 
with  each  expression  it  harmonized. 

After  a moment’s  pause  she  continued : 

“ This  susceptibility  to  the  influence  of  my 
country’s  music,  discovered  itself  in  a period  of 
existence  when  no  associating  sentiment  of  the 
heart  could  have  called  it  into  being ; for  I have 
often  wept  in  convulsive  emotion  at  an  air,  before 
the  sad  story  it  accompanied  was  understood : 
but  now — now — that  feeling  is  matured,  and  un- 
derstanding awakened.  Oh  ! you  cannot  judge — 


124 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


cannot  feel — for  you  have  no  national  music ; 
and  your  country  is  the  happiest  under  heaven!” 

Her  voice  faltered  as  she  spoke — her  fingers 
seemed  impulsively  to  thrill  on  the  chords  of  the 
harp — her  eyes,  her  tear  swollen,  beautiful  eyes, 
were  thrown  up  to  heaven,  and  her  voice,  “ low 
and  mournful  as  the  song  of  the  tomb,”  sighed 
over  the  chords  of  her  national  lyre,  as  she  faint- 
ly murmured  Campbell’s  beautiful  poem  to  the 
ancient  Irish  air  of  Erin  go  brack ! 

Oh ! is  there  on  earth  a being  so  cold,  so  icy, 
so  insensible,  as  to  have  made  a comment,  even 
an  encomiastic  one,  when  this  song  of  the  soul 
ceased  to  breathe!  God  knows  how  little  I was 
inclined  or  empowered  to  make  the  faintest  eulo- 
gium,  or  disturb  the.  sacred  silence  which  suc- 
ceeded to  her  music’s  dying  murmur.  On  the 
contrary,  I sat  silent  and  motionless,  with  my 
head  unconsciously  leaning  on  my  broken  arm, 
and  my  handkerchief  to  my  eyes  : when  at  last  I 
withdrew  it,  I found  her  hurried  glance  fixed  on 
me  with  a smile  of  such  expression  ! Oh  ! I could 
weep  my  heart’s  most  vital  drop  for  such  another 
glanjce — such  another  smile  ! — they  seemed  to 
say,  but  who  dares  to  translate  the  language  of 
the  soul,  which  the  eye  only  can  express  ? 

In  (I  believe)  equal  emotion,  we  both  arose  at 
the  same  moment  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Beyond  the  mass  of  ruins  which  spread  in  deso- 
late confusion  below,  the  ocean,  calm  and  unruf- 
fled, expanded  its  awful  bosom  almost  to  infini* 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


125 


tude  ; while  a body  of  dark,  sullen  clouds,  tinged 
with  the  partial  beam  of  a meridian  sun,  floated 
above  the  summits  of  those  savage  cliffs  which 
skirt  this  bold  and  rocky  coast ; and  the  tall  spec- 
tral figure  of  Father  John,  leaning  on  a broken 
pediment,  appeared  like  the  embodied  spirit  of 
philosophy  moralizing  amidst  the  ruins  of  em- 
pires, on  the  instability  of  all  human  greatness. 

What  a sublime  assemblage  of  images. 

O O 

“ How  consonant,”  thought  I,  gazing  at  Glor- 
viiia,  “ to  the  sublimated  tone  of  our  present  feel- 
ings.” Glorvina  waved  her  head  in  accidence  to 
the  idea,  as  though  my  lips  had  given  it  birth. 

How  think  you  I felt,  on  this  sweet  involuntary 
acknowledgment  of  a mutual  intelligence  ? 

Be  that  as  it  may,  my  eyes,  too  faithful  I fear 
to  my  feelings,  covered  the  face  on  which  they 
were  passionately  riveted  with  blushes. 

At  that  moment  Glorvina  was  summoned  to 
dinner  by  a servant,  for  she  only  is  permitted  to 
dine  with  the  Prince,  as  being  of  royal  descent. 
The  vision  dissolved — she  was  again  the  proud 
Milesian  Princess,  and  I the  poor  wandering 
artist — the  eleemosynary  guest  of  her  hospitable 
mansion. 

The  priest  and  I dined  tete-a-tete ; and,  for  the 
first  time,  he  had  all  the  conversation  to  himself ; 
and  got  deep  in  Locke  and  Malbranche,  in  solv- 
ing quidities,  and  starting  hypothesis,  to  which  I 
assented  with  great  gravity,  and  thought  only  of 
Glorvina. 


11* 


126 


THE  WILD  iraSH  GIRL. 


1 again  beheld  her  gracefully  drooping  over  her 
harp — I ag^n  caught  the" melody  of  her  song, 
and  the  sentiment  it  conveyed  to  the  soul ; and  I 
entered  fully  into  the  idea  of  the  Greek  painter, 
who  drew  Love^  not  with  a bow  and  arrow,  but  a 
lyre. 

I could  not  avoid  mentioning  with  admiration 
her  great  musical  powers. 

“Yes,”  said  he,  “she  inherits  them  from  he»- 
mother,  who  obtained  the  appellation  of  Glorvina, 
from  the  sweetness  of  her  voice,  by  which  name 
our  little  friend  was  baptized  at  her  mother’s  re- 
quest.” 

Adieu ! Glorvina  has  been  confined  in  her 
father’s  room  during  the  whole  of  the  evening — 
to  this  circumstance  you  are  indebted  for  this 
long  letter. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  VIII. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

The  invitation  I received  from  the  hospitable 
Lord  of  these  ruins,  was  so  unequivocal,  so  cor- 
dial, that  it  would  have  been  folly,  not  delicacy 
to  think  of  turning  out  of  his  house  the  moment 
my  health  was  re-established.  But  then,  I scarce- 
ly felt  it  warranted  that  length  of  residence  liere, 


THE  WILD  IR.SH  GIRL. 

which,  for  a thousand  reasons,  I am  now  anxious 
to  make.  ^ 

To  prolong  my  visit  till  the  arrival  of  my  father 
iii  this  country  was  my  object ; and  how  to  effect 
the  desired  purpose,  was  the  theme  of  my  cogita- 
tion during  the  whole  of  the  restless  night  which 
succeeded  my  interview  with  Glorvina;  and  to 
confess  the  truth,  I believe  this  interview  was 
not  the  least  potent  spell  which  fascinated  me  to 
Inismore. 

Wearied  by  my  restlessness,  rather  than  re- 
freshed by  my  transient  slumbers,  I arose  with 
the  dawn,  and  carrying  my  port-feuille  and  pen- 
cils with  me,  descended  from  my  tower,  and  con- 
tinued to  wander  for  some  time  among  the  wild 
and  romantic  scenes  which  surround  these  inter- 
esting ruins,  while 

La  sainte  recneilmeiit  la  paisible  iniroce-nce 
Seiiibler  de  ces  lieus  habiter  le  silence.” 

until  almost  wearied  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
varying  sublimities  which  the  changes  of  the 
morning’s  seasons  shed  over  the  ocean’s  bound- 
less expanse,  from  the  first  gray  vapour  that  arose 
from  its  swelling  v ave,  to  that  splendid  reful- 
gence with  which  the  risen  sun  crimsoned  its 
bosom,  I turned  away  my  dazzled  eye,  and  fixed 
it  on  the  ruins  of  Inismore.  Never  did  it  appeal 
in  an  aspect  so  picturesquely  felicitous : it  was 
a golden  period  for  the  poet’s  fancy  or  the  pain- 
ter’s art ; and  in  a moment  of  propitious  genius 


^8  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

I made  one  of  the  most  interesting  sketches  my 
pencil  ever  produced.  1 had  just  finished  my 
successful  ehauche^  when  Father  John,  returning 
from  matins,  observed,  and  instantly  joined  me. 
When  he  had  looked  over  and  commended  the 
result  of  my  morning’s  avocation,  he  gave  my 
port-folio  to  a servant  who  passed  us,  and  taking 
my  arm,  we  walked  down ^ together  to  the  sea- 
shore. 

“ This  happy  specimen  of  your  talent,”  said 
he,  as  we  proceeded,  “ will  be  very  grateful  to 
the  Prince.  In  him,  who  has  no  others  left,  it 
is  a very  innocent  pride,  to  wish  to  perpetuate 
the  fading  honours  of  his  family — for  as  such  the 
good  Prince  considers  these  ruins.  But,  my 
young  friend,  there  is  another  and  a surer  path 
to  the  Prince’s  heart,  to  which  I should  be  most 
happy  to  lead  you.” 

He  paused  for  a moment,  and  then  added: 

“ You  will,  I hope,  pardon  the  liberty  I am 
going  to  take ; but  as  1 boast  the  merit  of  having 
first  made  your  merit  known  to  your  worthy  host, 
I hold  myself  in  some  degree  (smiling  and  press- 
ing my  hand)  accountable  for  your  confirming  the 
partiality  I have  awakened  in  your  favour. 

“ The  daughter  of  the  Prince,  and  my  pupil, 
of  whom  you  can  have  yet  formed  no  opinion,  is 
a creature  of  such  rare  endowments,  that  it  should 
seam  Nature,  as  if  foreseeing  her  isolated  desti- 
ny, had  opposed  her  own  liberality  to  the  chari- 
ness of  fortune  ; and  lavished  on  her  such  intui- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


129 


live  talents,  that  she  almost  sets  the  necessity  of 
education  at  defiance.  To  all  that  is  most  excel- 
lent in  the  circle  of  human  intellect,  or  human 
science,  her  versatile  genius  is  constantly  direct- 
ed; and  it  is  my  real  opinion,  that  nothing  more 
is  requisite  to  perfect  her  in  any  liberal  or  elegant 
pursuit,  but  that  method  or  systerti  which  even 
the  strongest  native  talent,  unassisted,  can  seldom 
attain  (without  a long  series  of  practical  experi- 
ence) and  which  is  unhappily  denied  her ; while 
her  doating  father  incessantly  mourns  that  pover- 
ty, which  withholds  from  him  the  power  of  culti- 
vating those  shining  abilities  that  would  equally 
enrich  the  solitude  of  their  possessor,  or  render 
her  an  ornament  to  that  society  she  may  yet  be 
destined  to  grace.  Yet  the  occasional  visits  of  a 
strolling  dancing-master,  and  a few  musical  les- 
sons  received  in  her  early  childhood  from  the 
family  bard,  are  all  the  advantages  these  native 
talents  have  received. 

“ But  who  that  ever  beheld  her  motions  in  the 
dance,  or  listened  to  the  exquisite  sensibility  of 
her  song,  but  would  exclaim — ‘ here  is  a creature 
for  whom  Art  can  do  nothing — Nature  has  done 
all!’' 

“ To  these  elegant  acquirements,  she  unites  a 
decided  talent  for  drawing,  arising  from  powers 
naturally  imitative,  and  a taste  ^arly  imbibed 
(from  the  contemplation  of  her  native  scenes)  for 
all  that  is  most  sublime  and  beautiful  in  nature. 
But  this,  of  all  her  talents,  has  been  the  least 
I 


130 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


assisted,  and  yet  is  the  most  prized  by  her  fa- 
ther, who,  I believe,  laments  his  inability  to  de- 
tain you  here  as  her  preceptor  ; or  rather,  to  make 
it  worth  your  while  to  forego  your  professional 
pursuits,  for  such  a period  as  would  be  necessary 
to  invest  her  with  such  rudiments  in  the  art,  as 
would  form  a basis  for  her  future  improvement. 
In  a word,  can  you,  consistently  with  your  pres- 
ent plans,  make  the  castle  of  Inismore  your 
headquarters  for  two  or  three  months,  from 
whence  you  can  take  frequent  excursions  amidst 
the  neighbouring  scenery,  which  will  afford  to 
your  pencil  subjects  rich  and  various  as  almost 
any  other  part  of  the  country  ?” 

Now,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  I have  had 
more  than  one  occasion  to  remark  certain  desira- 
ble events  brought  about  by  means  diametrically 
opposite  to  the  supposition  of  all  human  probabili- 
ty ; — but  that  this  worthy  man  should  (as  if  in- 
fected with  the  intriguing  spirit  of  a French 
Abbe  reared  in  the  purlieus  of  the  Louvre)  thus 
forward  my  views,  and  effect  the  realization 
of  my  wishes,  excited  so  strong  an  emotion  of 
pleasurable  surprise,  that  I with  difficulty  repress- 
ed my  smiles,  or  concealed  my  triumph. 

After,  however,  a short  pause,  I replied  with 
great  gravity,  that  I always  conceived  with  Pliny, 
that  the  dignity  we  possess  by  the  good  offices 
of  a friend,  is  a kind  of  sacred  trust,  wherein  we 
have  his  judgment  as  well  as  our  own  character 
to  maintain,  and  therefore  to  be  guarded  with 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


131 


peculiar  attention ; that  consequently,  on  his  ac- 
count, I was  as  anxious  as  on  my  own,  to  confirm 
the  good  opinion  conceived  in  my  favour  through 
the  medium  of  his  partiality ; and  with  very  great 
sincerity  I assured  him,  that  I knew  of  no  one 
event  so  coincident  to  my  present  views  of  hap- 
piness, as  the  power  of  making  the  Prince  some 
return  for  his  benevolent  attentions,  and  of  be- 
coming his  (the  priest’s)  coadjutor  in  the  tuition 
of  his  highly  gifted  pupil. 

“ Add  then,  my  dear  Sir,”  said  I,  “ to  all  the 
obligations  you  have  forced  on  me,  by  presenting 
my  respectful  compliments  to  the  Prince,  with 
the  ofter  of  my  little  services,  and  an  earnest 
request  that  he  will  condescend  to  accept  of  them ; 
and  if  you  think  it  will  add  to  the  delicacy  of 
the  offer,  let  him  suppose  that  it  voluntarily  comes 
from  the  heart  deeply  impressed  with  a sense  of 
his  kindness.” 

“ That  is  precisely  what  I was  going  to  pro- 
pose,” returned  this  excellent  and  unsuspecting 
being.  “ I would  even  wish  him  to  think  you 
conceive  the  obligation  all  on  your  own  side ; for  the 
pride  of  fallen  greatness  is  of  all  others  the  most 
sensitive.” 

“ And  God  knows  so  I do,”  said  T,  fervently  , 
— ^then  carelessly  added,  “ do  you  think  your 
pupil  has  a decided  talent  for  the  art  ?” 

“ It  may  be  partiality,”  he  replied  ; “ but  I think 
she  has  a decided  talent  for  every  elegant  acquire- 
ment. If  I recollect  rights  somebody  ha^  defined 


52 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


i enius  to  be  ‘ the  various  powers  of  a strong  mind 
directed  to  one  point making  it  the  result  of 
combined  force,  not  the  vital  source,  whence  all 
intellectual  powers  flow;  in  which  light,  the  ge- 
nius of  Glorvina  has  ever  appeared  to  me  as  a 
beam  from  heaven,  an  emanation  of  divine  intel- 
ligence, whose  nutritive  warmth  cherishes  into 
existence  that  richness  and  variety  of  talent 
which  wants  only  a little  care  to  rear  it  to  per- 
fection. 

“ When  I first  offered  to  become  the  preceptor 
to  this  charming  child,  her  father,  I believe, 
never  formed  an  idea  that  my  tuition  would  have 
extended  beyond  a little  reading  and  writing; 
but  I soon  found  that  my  interesting  pupil  pos- 
sessed a genius  that  bore  all  before  it — that  al- 
most anticipated  instruction  by  force  of  its  tuitive 
powers,  and  prized  each  task  assigned  it,  only  in 
proportion  to  the  difficulty  by  which  it  was  to  be 
accomplished. 

“ Her  young  ambitious  mind  even  emulated 
rivalry  with  mine,  and  that  study  in  which  she 
beheld  me  enoraged  seldom  failed  to  become  the 
object  of  her  desires  and  her  assiduity.  Availing 
myself,  therefore,  of  this  innate  spirit  of  emula- 
tion— this  boundless  thirst  of  knowledge,  I left 
her  mind  free  in  the  election  of  its  studies,  while 
I only  threw  within  its  power  of  acquisition, 
that  which  could  tend  to  render  her  a rational, 
and  consequently  a benevolent  being ; for  I have 
always  conceived  an  informed,  intelligent,  and 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


133 


enlightened  mind,  o be  the  best  security  for  a 
good  heart;  although  the  many  who  mistake  tal- 
ent for  intellect,  and  unfortunately  too  often  find 
the  former  united  to  vice,  and  led  to  suppose  that 
the  heart  loses  in  goodness  what  the  mind  ac- 
quires in  strength,  as  if  (as  a certain  paradoxical 
writer  has  asserted)  there  was  something  in  the 
natural  mechanism  of  the  human  frame  necessary 
to  constitute  a fine  genius  that  is  not  altogether 
favourable  to  the  heart. 

“ But  here  comes  the  unconscious  theme  of 
our  conversation.” 

And  at  that  moment  Glorvina  appeared,  spring- 
ing lightly  forward,  like  Cresset’s  beautiful  per- 
sonification of  health  : 

“ As  Hebe  swift,  as  Venus  fair, 

Youthful,  lovely,  light  as  air.” 

As  soon  as  she  perceived  me  she  stopt  abrupt- 
ly, blushed,  and  returning  my  salutation,  advanced 
to  the  priest,  and  twining  her  arm  familiarly  in 
his,  said,  with  an  air  of  playful  tenderness, 

“Oil  have  brought  you  something  you  will 
be  glad  to  see- — here  is  the  spring’s  first  violet, 
which  the  unusual  chilliness  of  the  season  has 
suffered  to  steal  into  existence  : this  morning  as 
[ gathered  herbs  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  I 
inhaled  its  odour  ere  I discovered  its  purple  head, 
as  solitary  and  unassociated  it  was  drooping  be- 
neath the  heavy  foliage  of  a neighbouring  plant. 

“ It  is  but  just  you  should  have  the  first  violet 
12 


134 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


as  my  fatl  ar  has  already  had  the  first  snowdrop 
Receive,  then,  my  offering,”  she  added  with  a 
smile ; and  while  she  fondly  placed  it  in  his 
breast  with  an  air  of  exquisite  naivette,  to  my 
astonishment  she  repeated  from  B.  Tasso,  those 
lines  so  consonant  to  the  tender  simplicity  of  the 
act  in  which  she  was  e.noao-ed  : 

O O 

“ Poiche  d’allro  honorate 
Non  dosso,  preiidi  lieta 
Queste  iiegre  viole 
Dali  nmor  rugiadose.” 

The  priest  gazed  at  her  with  looks  of  parental 
affection,  and  said, 

“ Your  offering,  my  dear,  is  indeed  the 
* Incense  to  the  heart;’ 

and  more  precious  to  the  receiver,  than  the  rich- 
est donation  that  ever  decked  the  shrine  of  Loret- 
to.  How  fragrant  it  is  !”  he  added,  presenting  it 
to  me. 

1 took  it  in  silence,  but  raised  it  no  higher  than 
my  lip — the  eye  of  Glorvina  met  mine,  as  my 
kiss  breathed  upon  her  flower:  Good  God  ! what 
an  undefinable,  what  a delicious  emotion  thrilled 
through  my  heart  at  that  moment ! and  the  next 
— yet  I know  not  how  it  was,  or  whether  the 
motion  was  made  by  her,  or  by  me,  or  by  the 
priest — but  somehow,  Glorvina  had  got  between 
us,  and  while  I gazed  at  her  beautiful  flower,  I 
oersonified  the  blossom,  and  addressed  to  hei  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


135 


happiest  lines  that  form  “ La  Guirlande  de  Julie, ^ 
while,  as  I repeated. 

Mais  SI  sur  votre  front  je  penx  briller  nn  jour, 

La  plus  humble  des  fleurs  sera  la  plus  superbe;” 

I reposed  it  for  a moment  on  her  brow  in  passing 
it  over  to  the  priest. 

“ Oh !”  said  she,  with  an  arch  smile,  “ I per- 
ceive you  too  will  expect  a tributary  flower  for 
these  charming  lines  ; and  the  summer’s  first 
rose” — she  paused  abruptly  ; but  her  eloquent  eye 
continued,  “ should  be  thine,  but  that  thou  mayst 
be  far  from  hence  when  the  summer’s  first  rose 
appears.”  I thought  too — but  it  might  be  only 
the  fancy  of  my  wishes,  that  a sigh  floated  on 
the  lip,  when  recollection  checked  the  effusion 
of  the  heart. 

“ The  rose,'^  (said  the  priest,  with  simplicity, 
and  more  engaged  with  the  classicality  of  the 
idea,  than  the  inference  to  be  drawn  from  it,)  “ the 
rose  is  the  flower  of  Love.” 

I stole  a look  at  Glorvina,  whose  cheek  now 
emulated  the  tint  of  the  theme  of  our  conversation  ; 
and  plucking  a thistle  that  sprung  from  a broken 
pediment,  she  blew  away  its  down  with  her 
balmy  breath,  merely  to  hide  her  confusion. 

Surely  she  is  the  most  sentient  of  all  created 
beings ! 

“ I remember,”  continued  the  priest,  “ being 
severely  censured  by  a rigid  old  priest,  at  my 
college  in  St.  Omer’s,  who  found  me  reading  the 


136 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Idylinm  of  Ausoniiis,  in  which  he  so  beaiiti- 
fully  celebrates  the  rose,  when  r.e  good  father 
believed  me  deep  in  St.  Augustin.' 

“The  rose,”  said  I,  “ has  always  been  the 
poet’s  darling  theme.  The  impassioned  lyre  of 
Sappho  has  breathed  upon  its  leaves.  Anacreon 
has  wooed  it  in  the  happiest  effusions  of  his 
genius  ; and  poesy  seems  to  have  exhausted  her 
powers  in  celebrating  the  charms  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  transient  of  flowers. 

“ Among  its  modern  panegyrists,  few  have 
been  more  happily  successful  than  Monsieur  de 
Barnard,  in  that  charming  little  ode  beginning  : 

“Tendre  fruits  des  plenrs  d’aurore, 

Ob  jets  des  baisers  dii  zephyrs, 

Reine  de  I’empire  de  Flore, 

Hate  toi  d’epanoir.’’ 

“ O ! I beseech  you  go  on,”  exclaimed*  Glor- 
vina ; and  at  her  request,  I finished  the  poem. 

“ Beautiful,  beautiful  !”  said  she,  with  enthusi- 
asm. “ O ! there  is  a certain  delicacy  of  genius 
in  elegant  trifles  of  this  description,  which  I 
think  the  French  possess  almost  exclusively  : it 
is  a language  formed  almost  by  its  very  construc- 
tion (ieterniser  la  bagatelle^  and  to  clothe  the  fairy 
effusions  of  fancy  in  the  most  appropriate  drapery. 

“ I thank  you  for  this  beautiful  ode  ; the  rose 
was  always  my  idol  flower  ; in  all  its  different 
stages  of  existence,  it  speaks  a language  nsy 
heart  understands  ; from  its  young  bud’s  first  crim- 
son glow,  the  last  sickly  blush  of  '^ts  faded 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


137 


blossom.  It  is  the  flower  of  sentiment  m all  its 
sweet  transitions  ; it  breathes  a moral,  and  seems 
to  preserve  an  undecaying  soul  in  that  fragrant 
essence  which  still  survives  the  bloom  and  sym- 
metry of  the  fragile  form  which  every  beam  too 
ardent,  every  gale  too  chill,  injures  and  destroys.’’ 

“ And  is  there,”  said  I,  “ no  parallel  in  the 
moral  world  for  this  lovely  offspring  of  the  na- 
tural r’ 

Glorvina  raised  her  humid  eyes  to  mine,  and  I 
read  the  parallel  there. 

“ I vow,”  said  the  priest,  with  affected  peitish- 
ness,  “ I am  half  tempted  to  fling  away  my  violet, 
since  this  idol  flower  has  been  decreed  to  Mr. 
Mortimer ; and  to  revenge  myself,  I will  show 
him  your  ode  on  the  rose.” 

At  these  words,  he  took  out  his  pocket-book, 
laughing  at  his  gratified  vengeance,  while  Glor- 
vina coaxed,  blushed,  and  threatened ; until  snatch- 
ing the  book  out  of  his  hand,  as  he  was  endeav- 
ouring to  put  it  into  mine,  away  she  flew  like 
lightning,  laughing  heartily  at  her  triumph,  in  all 
the  exility  and  playfulness  of  a youthful  spirit. 

“ What  a Hebe .'”  said  I,  as  she  kissed  her 
hand  to  us  in  her  airy  flight. 

“Yes,”  said  he,  “she  at  least  illustrates  the 
possibility  of  a woman  uniting  in  her  character 
the  extremes  of  intelligence  and  simplicity : you 
see,  with  all  her  information  and  talent,  she  is  a 
mere  child.” 

Wh3n  we  reached  the  castle,  we  found  her 

12’* 


138 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


wailing  for  us  at  the  breakfast  table,  flushed  \i  itb 
tier  race — all  animation,  all  spirits  ! her  reserve 
seemed  gradually  to  vanish,  and  nothing  could  be 
more  interesting,  yet  more  enjouee^  than  her  man- 
ner and  conversation.  While  the  fertility  of  her 
imagination  supplied  incessant  topic  of  conversa- 
tion, always  new,  always  original,  I could  not 
help  reverting  in  idea  to  those  languid  tete-a-tetes^ 
even  in  the  hey-dey  of  our  intercourse,  when 
Lady  C — and  I have  sat  yawning  at  each  other, 
or  biting  our  fingers,  merely  for  want  of  some- 
thing to  say,  in  those  intervals  of  passion,  which 
every  connexion  even  of  the  tenderest  nature, 
must  sustain — she  in  the  native  dearth  of  her 
mind,  and  I in  the  habitual  apathy  of  mine. 

But  here  is  a creature  who  talks  of  a violet  or 
a rose  with  the  artless  air  of  infancy,  and  yet 
fascinates  you  in  the  simple  discussion,  as  though 
the  whole  force  of  intellect  was  roused  to  sup- 
port it. 

By  Heaven  ! if  I know  my  own  heart,  I would 
not  love  this  being  for  a thousand  worlds  ; at  least 
as  I have  hitherto  loved.  As  it  is,  I feel  a certain 
commerce  of  the  soul — a mutual  intelligence  of 
mind  and  feeling  with  her,  which  a look,  a sigh, 
a word  is  sufficient  to  betray — a sacred  commu- 
nion of  spirit,  which  raises  me  in  the  scale  of  ex- 
istence almost  above  mortality ; and  though  we 
had  been  known  to  each  other  by  looks  only,  still 
would  this  amalgamation  of  soul  (if  I may  use 
ijie  expression)  have  existed. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


139 


Wh.it  a nausea  of  every  sense  does  the  turbu- 
lent agitation  of  gross  commonplace  passion 
bring  with  it.  But  the  sentiment  which  this  seraph 
awakens,  ‘‘  brings  with  it  no  satiety.”  There  is 
something  so  pure,  so  refreshing  about  her,  that 
in  the  present  state  of  my  heart,  feelings,  and 
constitution,  she  produces  the  same  effect  on  me 
as  does  the  health-giving  breeze  of  returning 
spring  to  the  drooping  spirit  of  slow  conval- 
escence ! 

After  breakfast  she  left  us,  and  I was  permitted 
to  kiss  his  Highness’s  hand,  on  my  instalment  in 
my  new  and  enviable  office.  He  did  not  speak 
much  on  the  subject,  but  with  his  usual  energy. 
However,  I understood  I was  not  to  waste  my 
time,  as  he  termed  it,  for  nothing. 

When  I endeavoured  to  argue  the  point  (as  if 
the  whole  business  was  not  a farce,)  the  Prince 
would  not  hear  me  ; so  behold  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  a hireling  tutor,  ^aith,  to  confess  the 
truth,  I know  not  whether  to  be  pleased  or  angry 
with  this  wild  romance  : this  too,  in  a man  whose 
whole  life  has  been  a laugh  at  romancers  of  every 
description. 

What  if  my  father  learns  the  extent  of  my  folly, 
in  the  first  era  too  of  my  probation ! Oh ! what  a 
spirit  of  hizarte  ever  drives  me  from  the  central 
point  of  common  sense,  and  common  prudence  ! 
With  what  tyranny  does  impulse  rule  my  way- 
ward fate ! and  how  imperiously  my  heart  still 
takes  the  lead  of  my  head!  y H if  1 could  evei 


140 


THE  WILD  ^RISH  GIRL. 


consider  the  “ meteor  ray”  that  has  hitherto  mis 
led  my  wanderings,  as  a “ light  from  heaven,”  it 
is  now,  when  virtue  leads  me  to  the  shrine  of  in- 
nocent pleasure  ; and  the  mind  beeomes  the  bet- 
ter for  the  v/anderinss  of  the  heart. 

“ But  what,”  you  will  say,  with  your  usual 
foreseeing  prudence — “ what  is  the  aim,  the  ob- 
ject of  your  present  romantic  pursuit?” 

Faith,  none;  save  the  simple  enjoyment  of 
present  felicity,  after  an  age  of  cold,  morbid  apa- 
thy ; and  a self  resignation  to  an  agreeable  illu- 
sion, after  having  sustained  the  actual  burthen  of 
real  sufferings  (sufferings  the  more  acute  as  they 
were  self  created,)  succeeded  by  that  dearth  of 
feeling  and  sensation  which  in  permitting  my 
heart  to  lie  fallow  for  an  interval,  only  rendered 
it  the  more  genial  to  those  exotic  seeds  of  happi- 
ness which  the  vagrant  gale  of  chance  has  flung 
on  its  surface.  But  whether  they  will  take  deep 
root,  or  only  wear  “"^he  perfume  and  suppliance 
of  a moment,”  is  an  unthought  of  “ circumstance 
still  hanging  in  the  stars ;”  to  whose  decision  1 
commit  it. 

Would  you  know  my  plans  of  meditated  opera- 
tion, they  run  thus: — In  a few  days  I shall  avail 
myself  of  my  professional  vocation,  and  fly  home, 
merely  to  obviate  suspicion  in  Mr.  Clendinning, 
receive  and  answer  letters,  and  get  my  books  and 
wardrobe  sent  to  the  Lodge,  previous  to  my  own 
removal  there,  which  I shall  effect  under  the 
plausible  plea  of  the  dissipated  neighbourhood  of 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL« 


141 


M house  being  equally  inimical  to  the  pres- 

ent state  of  my  constitution  and  my  studious* 
pursuits ; and,  in  fact,  I must  either  associate 
with,  or  offend  these  hospitable  Milesians — an 
alternative  by  no  means  consonant  to  my  inclina- 
tions. 

From  Inismore  to  the  Lodge,  I can  make  con- 
stant sallies,  and  be  in  the  way  to  receive  my 
father,  whose  arrival  I think  I may  still  date  at 
some  weeks’  distance  ; besides,  should  it  be  ne- 
cessary, I think  I should  'find  no  difficulty  in 
bribing  the  old  steward  of  the  Lodge  to  my  in- 
terest. His  evident  aversion  to  Clendinning,  and 
attachment  to  the  Prince,  renders  him  ripe  for 
any  scheme  by  which  the  latter  could  be  served, 
or  the  former  outwitted ; and  I hope  in  the  end 
to  effect  hpth : for,  to  unite  this  old  chieftain  in 
bonds  of  amity  with  my  father,  and  to  punish  the 
rascality  of  the  worthy  Mr.  Clendinning,  is  a 
double  “ consummation  devoutly  to  be  wished.’ 
In  short,  when  the  heart  is  interested  in  a project, 
the  stratagems  of  the  imagination  to  forward  P 
are  inexhaustible. 

It  should  seem  that  the  name  of  M is  in- 

terdicted at  Inismore  : I have  more  than  once  en- 
deavoured (though  remotely)  to  make  the  resi- 
dence of  our  family  in  this  country  a topic  of 
conversation ; but  every  one  seemed  to  shrink 
from  the  subject,  as  though  some  fatality  was 
connected  with  its  discussion.  To  avoid  speakin 
\li  of  those  of  whom  we  have  but  little  reason 


142 


IHE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


speak  well,  is  the  temperance  of  aversion,  and 
seldom  found  but  in  great  minds. 

I must  mention  to  you  another  instance  of  liber* 
ality  in  he  sentiments  of  these  isolated  beings : 
« — I have  only  once  attended  the  celebration  of 
divine  service  hero  since  my  arrival ; but  my  ab- 
sence seemed  not  to  be  observed,  or  my  attend- 
ance noticed  ; and  though,  as  an  Englishman,  I 
may  be  naturally  supposed  to  be  of  the  most  popu- 
lar faith,  yet,  for  all  they  know  to  the  contrary,  I 
may  be  Jew,^ Mussulman,  or  Infidel;  for,  before 
me  at  least,  religion  is  a topic  never  discussed. 

Adieu, 

H.  M 


LETTER  IX. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ:,  M.  P. 

I HAVE  already  given  two  lessons  to  my  pupil, 
in  an  art  in  which,  with  all  due  deference  to  the 
judgment  of  her  quondam  tutor,  she  was  ikever 
destined  to  excel. 

Not,  however,  that  she  is  deficient  in  talent — 
very  far  from  it ; but  it  is  too  progressive,  too 
tame  a pursuit  for  the  vivacity  of  her  genius.  i( 
is  not  sufficiently  connected  with  those  lively  and 
vehement  emotions  of  the  soul  she  is  so  calcula- 
ted to  feel  and  to  awaken.  She  was  created  fox 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


143 


a musician — there  she  is  borne  away  by  the 
magic  of  the  art  in  which  she  excels,  and  the  nat- 
ural enthusiasm  of  her  impassioned  character : 
she  can  sigh,  she  can  weep,  she  can  smile  over 
her  harp.  The  sensibility  of  her  soul  trembles 
in  her  song,  and  the  expression  of  her  rapt 
countenance  harmonizes  with  her  voice.  But  at 
her  drawing-desk,  her  features  lose  their  anima- 
ted character — the  smile  of  rapture  ceases  to 
play,  and  the  glance  of  inspiration  to  beam.  And 
with  the  transient  extinction  of  those  feelings 
from  which  each  touching  charm  is  derived,  fades 
that  all  pervading  interest,  that  energy  of  admira- 
tion which  she  usually  excites. 

Notwithstanding,  however,  the  pencil  is  never 
out  of  her  hand ; her  harp  lies  silent,  and  her 
drawing-book  is  scarcely  ever  closed.  Yet  she 
limits  my  attendance  to  the  first  hour  after  break- 
fast, and  then  I generally  lose  sight  of  her  the 
whole  day,  until  we  all  meet  eji-famille  in  the 
evening.  Her  improvement  is  rapid — her  father 
delighted,  and  she  quite  fascinated  by  the  novelty 
of  her  avocation  ; . the  priest  congratulates  me, 
and  I alone  am  dissatisfied. 

But  from  the  natural  impatience  and  volatility 
of  her  character,  {both  very  obvious,)  this,  thank 
Heaven!  will  soon  be  over.  Besides,  even  in 
the  hour  of  tuition,  from  which  I promised  my- 
self so  much,  I do  not  enjoy  her  society — ^the 
priest  always  devotes  that  time  to  reading  out  to 
her ; and  this  too  at  her  own  request : — ^not  that  I 


144 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


tbinli  her  innocent  and  unsuspicious  nature  cher- 
ishes the  least  reserve  at  her  being  left  tete-a~*et6 
with  her  less  venerable  preceptor;  but  that  ner 
ever  active  mind  requires  incessant  exercise  ; and 
in  fact,  while  I am  hanmnsover  her  in  uncontrolled 
emotion,  she  is  drawing,  as  if  her  livelihood  de- 
pended on  the  exertions  of  her  pencil,  or  com- 
menting on  the  subjects  of  the  priest’s  perusal, 
with  as  much  ease  as  judgment ; while  she  minds 
me  no  more  than  if  1 were  a well  organized  piece 
of  mechanism,  by  whose  motions  her  pencil  was 
to  be  guided. 

What  if,  with  all  her  mind,  all  her  genius,  this 
creature  had  no  heart ! — And  what  were  it  to  me, 
though  she  had  ? * ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ 

The  Prince  fancies  his  domestic  government 
to  be  purely  patriarchal,  and  that  he  is  at  once 
the  “ Law  and  the  Prophet”  to  his  family  ; never 
suspecting  that  he  is  all  the  time  governed  by  a 
girl  of  nineteen,  whose  soul,  notwithstanding  the 
playful  softness  of  her  manner,  contains  a latent 
ambition,  which  sometimes  breathing  in  the  gran- 
deur of  her  sentiment,  and  sometimes  sparkliiig 
in  the  haughtiness  of  her  eye,  seems  to  say,  “ I 
was  born  for  empire!” 

It  is  evident  that  the  tone  of  her  mind  is  natu 
rally  stronger  than  her  father’s,  though  to  a com- 
mon observe:^  he  would  appear  a man  of  nervous 
and  masculine  understanding ; but  the  difference 
between  them  is  this — his  energies  are  the  ener 
gies  of  the  passions — hers  of  the  mind ! 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


145 


Like  most  other  Princes,  mine  is  governed 
much  by  favoritism ; and  it  is  evident  I already 
rank  high'on  the  list  of  partiality. 

I perceive,  however,  that  much  of  his  predilec- 
tion in  my  favour,  arises  from  the  coincidence  of 
my  present  curiosity  and  taste  with  his  favourite 
pursuits  and  national  prejudices.  Newly  awaken- 
ed, (perhaps  by  mere  force  of  novelty,)  to  a lively 
interest  for  every  thing  that  concerns  a country  I 
once  thought  so  little  worthy  of  consideration ; in 
short,  convinced  by  the  analogy  of  existing  hab- 
its, with  recorded  customs,  of  the  truth  of  those 
circumstances  so  generally  ranked  in  the  apocry- 
phal tales  of  the  history  of  this  vilified  country ; 
I have  determined  to  resort  to  the  witness  of  time, 
the  light  of  truth,  and  the  corroboration  of  living 
testimony,  in  the  study  of  a country  which  I am 
beginning  to  think  would  afford  to  the  mind  of 
philosophy  a rich  subject  of  analysis,  and  to  the 
powers  of  poetic  fancy  a splendid  series  of  roman- 
tic detail. 

“ Sir  William  Temple,”  says  Dr.  Johnson, 
^ complains  that  Ireland  is  less  known  than  any 
other  country,  as  to  its  ancient  state,  because  the 
natives  have  little  leisure,  and  less  encourage- 
ment for  enquiry ; and  that  a stranger,  not  know- 
ing its  language,  has  no  ability.” 

This  impediment,  however,  shall  not  stand  in 
the  way  of  one  stranger,  who  is  willing  to  offer 
up  his  national  prejudices  at  the  Altar  of  Truth, 
and  expiate  the  crime  of  an  unfounded  bu<  habit- 
K 13 


146 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


tial  antipathy,  by  an  impartial  examination,  ami 
an  unbiassed  inquiry.  In  short,  I have  actually 
began  to  study  the  language  ; and  though  I recol- 
lect to  have  read  the  opinion  of  Temple,  “that 
the  Celtic  ^ialect  used  by  the  native  Irish  is  the 
purest  and  most  original  language  that  now  re- 
mains yet  I never  suspected  that  a language 
spoken  par  routine,  and  chiefly  by  the  lower 
classes  of  society,  could  be  acquired  upon  princi- 
ple, until  the  other  day,  when  I observed  in  the 
Prince’s  truly  national  library  some  philological 
works,  which  were  shown  me  by  Father  John, 
who  has  oflered  to  be  my  prece^Dtor  in  this  wreck 
of  ancient  dialect,  and  who  assures  me  he  will 
render  me  master  of  it  in  a short  time — provided 
I study  con  amore, 

“ And  I will  assist  you,”  said  Glorvina. 

“ We  will  all  assist  him,”  said  the  Prince. 

“ Then  I shall  study  con  amore  indeed !”  re- 
turned I. 

Behold  me  then,  buried  amidst  the  monuments 
of  past  ages  ! — deep  in  the  study  of  the  language, 
history,  and  antiquities  of  this  ancient  nation — 
talking  of  the  invasion  of  Henry  II,  as  a recent 
circumstance — of  the  Phoenician  migration  hither 
from'  Spain,  as  though  my  grandfather  had  been 
delegated  by  Firbalgs  to  receive  the  Milesians  on 
their  landing — and  of  those  transactions  passed 
through 

“ Tlie  dark  posterns  of  time  lon^^  elapsed,^’ 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


147 


aa  though  their  existence  was  but  freshly  regis- 
tered in  the  annak  of  recollection. 

In  short,  infected  by  my  antiquarian  conversa- 
tion with  the  Prince,  and  having  fallen  in  with 
some  of  those  monkish  histories  which,  on  the 
strength  of  Druidical  tradition,  trace  a series  of 
wise  and  learned  Irish  monarchs  before  the  floods 
1 am  beoinning  to  have  as  much  faith  in  antedi- 
luvian  records  as  Dr.  Parsons  himself,  who  accu- 
ses Adam  of  authorship,  or  Thomas  Bangius^ 
who  almost  gives  fac  similies  of  the  hand- writing 
of  Noah’s  progenitors. 

Seriously,  however,  I enter  on  my  new  studies 
with  avidity,  and  read  from  the  morning’s  first 
dawn  till  the  usual  hour  of  breakfast,  which  is 
become  to  me  as  much  the  banquet  of  the  heart,, 
as  the  Roman  supper  was  to  the  Agustan  wits 
‘‘  the  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul,” — for 
it  is  the  only  meal  at  which  Glorvina  presides. 

Two  hours  each  day  does  the  kind  priest  de- 
vote to  my  philological  pursuits,  while  Glorvina,. 
who  is  frequently  present  on  these  occasions 
makes  me  repeat  some  short  poem  or  song  after 
her,  that  I may  catch  the  pronunciation,  (which 
is  almost  unattainable,)  then  translates  them  into 
English,  which  1 word  for  word  write  down.. 
Here  then  is  a specimen  of  Irish  poetry,  which 
is  almost  always  the  effusion  of  some  blind  itin- 
erent  bard,  or  some  rustic  minstrel,  into  whose 
breast  the  genius  of  his  country  has  breathed  in- 


148 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Bpiration,  as  he  patiently  drove  the  plough,  of 
laboriously  worked  in  the  bog.* 

CATHBEIN  NOLAN. 

I. 

“ My  love,  when  she  floats  on  the  mountain’s  brow,  is 
like  the  dewy  cloud  of  the  summer’s  loveliest  evening. 
Her  forehead  is  as  a pearl ; her  spiral  locks  are  of  gold;  and 
I grieve  that  I cannot  banish  her  from  my  memory. 

II. 

“ When  she  enters  the  forest  like  the  bounding  doe,  dis- 
persing the  dew  with  her  airy  steps,  her  mantle  on  her 
arm,  the  axe  in  her  hand  to  ciit  tlie  branches  of  flame;  I 
know  not  which  is  the  most  noble — the  King  of  the  Sax- 
ons,! or  Cathbein  Nolan,” 

This  little  song  is  of  so  ancient  a date,  that 
Glorvina  assures  me,  neither  the  name  of  the 
composer  (for  the  melody  is  exquisitely  beautiful) 
nor  the  poet,  have  escaped  the  oblivion  of  time. 
But  if  we  may  judge  of  the  rank  of  the  poet  by 
that  of  his  mistress,  it  must  have  been  of  a very 
humble  degree  ; for  it  is  evident  that  the  fairCath- 

*Miss  Brooks,  in  her  elegant  version  of  the  works  of 
some  of  the  Irish  Bards,  says,  “ ’Tis  scarcely  possible  that 
any  language  can  be  more  adapted  to  lyric  poetry  than  the 
Irish  ; so  great  is  the  smoothness  and  harmony  of  its  num- 
bers; it  is  also  possessed  of  a refined  delicacy,  a descriptive 
power,  and  an  exquisite  tender  simplicity  of  expression; 
two  or  three  little  artless  words,  or  perhaps  a single  epithet, 
will  sometimes  convey  such  an  image  of  sentiment  or  suf- 
fering  to  the  mind,  that  one  lays  down  the  book  to  look 
at  the  picture.” 

t The  King  of  England  is  called  by  the  common  Irish 
” Riagh  Sasseanach.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


149 


boin,  whose  form  is  compared,  in  splendour,  to 
that  of  the  Saxon  monarch,  is  represented  as  cut- 
ting wood  for  the  fire. 

The  following  songs,  however,  arc  by  the  most 
celebrated  of  the  modern  Irish  bards,  Turloch 
Carolan,*  and  the  airs  to  which  he  has  composed 
them,  possess  the  arioso  elegance  of  Italian  mu- 
sic, united  to  the  heartfelt  pathos  of  Irish  melody. 

I. 

‘‘  I must  sing  of  the  youthful  plant  of  gentlest  mien — 
Fanny,  the  heautiful  and  warm  , son  I'd — the  maid  of  the 
amber  twisted  ringlets;  the  air  lifted  and  light  footed  virgin 
— the  elegant  pearl  and  heart’s  treasure  of  Erin;  then 
waste  not  the  fleeting  hour — let  us  enjoy  it  in  drinking  to 
the  health  of  Fanny,  the  daughter  of  David. 

* He  was  born  in  the  village  of  Nobber,  county  of 
Westmeath,  in  1670,  and  died  in  1739.  He  never  regret- 
ted the  loss  of  sight,  but  used  gaily  to  say,  “ my  eyes 
are  only  transplanted  into  my  ears.”  Of  his  poetry,  the 
reader  may  form  some  judgment  from  these  examples.  Of 
his  mnsij,  it  has  been  said  by  O’Connor,  the  celebrated 
historian,  who  knew  him  intimately,  “ so  happy,  so  eleva- 
ted was  he  in  some  of  his  compositions,  that  he  excited  the 
wonder,  and  obtained  the  approbation  of  a great  master 
who  never  saw  him,  I mean  Geminiani.”  His  execution 
on  the  harp  was  rapid  and  expressive — far  beyond  that  of 
all  the  professional  competitors  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived.  The  eharms  of  women,  the  pleasures  of  conviviali- 
ty, and  the  power  of  poesy  and  music,  were  at  once  his 
theme  and  inspiration  ; and  his  life  was  an  illustration  of 
his  theory,  for  until  his  last  ardour  was  chilled  by  death,  he 
loved,  drank  and  sung.  He  was  a welcome  guest  to  every 
house,  from  the  peasant  to  the  prince;  but  in  the  true 
wandering  spirit  of  his  profession,  he  never  staid  tc  ex- 
haust that  welcome. 


13* 


150 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


II. 

“ It  is  the  maid  of  the  m^gic  lock  I sing,  the  fair  swan  of 
the  shore — ^for  wliose  love  a imiltitnde  expires:  Fanny, 
llie  beautiful,  whose  tresses  are  like  the  evening  sun  beam; 
whose  voice  is  like  the  blackbird’s  morning  song ; 0,  may 
I never  leave  ihe  world  until  dancing  in  the  air  (this  ex- 
pression in  the  Irish  is  beyond -the  power  of  translation) 
at  her  wedding,  I shall  send  away  the  hours  in  drinking  to 
Fanny,  the  daughter  of  David.’^* 

GRACY  NUGENT. 

I. 

“ I delight  to  talk  of  thee ! blossom  of  fairness ! Gracy, 
the  most  frolicsome  of  the  young  and  lovely — who  from 
the  fairest  of  the  province  bore  away  the  palm  of  excel- 
lence— happy  is  he  who  is  near  her,  for  morning  nor  even- 
ing grief,  nor  fatigue,  cannot  come  near  him  ; her  mien  is 
like  the  mildness  of  a beautiful  dawn  ; and  her  tresses  flow 
in  twisted  folds — she  is  the  daughter  of  the  branches. — 
Her  neck  has  the  whiteness  of  alabaster — the  softness  of 
the  cygnet’s  bosom  is  hers;  and  the  glow  of  the  summer’s 
sunbeam  is  on  her  countenance.  Oh  ! blessed  is  he  who 
shall  obtain  thee,  fair  daughter  of  the  blossoms— maid  of 
the  spiry  locks  ! 

II. 

‘‘  Sweet  is  the  word  of  her  lip,  and  sparkling  the  beam 
of  her  blue  rolling  eye  ; and  close  round  her  neck  cling 
the  golden  tresses  of  her  head : and  her  teeth  are  arranged 
in  beautiful  order.  I say  to  the  maid  of  youthful  mild- 
ness, thy  voice  ia  sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds ; 'every 

♦She  was  daughter  to  David  Power,  Esq.,  of  the  county 
Galway,  afid  mother  to  the  late  Lord  Cloncarty.  The  epi- 
thet bestowed  on  her  of  “ Swan  of  the  shore,”  arose  from 
her  father’s  mansion  being  situated  on  the  eclge  of  Lough 
I^ah,  or  the  grey  lake,  of  which  many  curious  legends 
are  told. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  151 

grace,  every  charm  play  round  thee;  and  though  my  soul 
delights  U sing  thy  praise,  yet  I must  quit  the  theme — to 
drink  with  a sincere  heart  to  thy  health,  Gracy  of  the  sof> 
waving  ringlets.^^ 

Does  not  this  poetical  effusion,  awakened  by 
the  charms  of  the  fair  Gracy,  recal  to  your 
memory  the  description  of  Helen  by  Theocritus, 
in  his  beautifu'l  epithalamium  on  her  marriage  ? — 

“ She  is  like  the  rising  of  the  golden  morn- 
ing,  when  the  night  departeth,  and  when  the  win- 
ter is  over  and  gone — she  resembleth  the  cypress 
in  the  garden,  the  horse  in  the  chariot  of  Thes- 
saly.” 

While  the  invocation  to  the  enjoyment  of 
convivial  pleasure  which  breathes  over  the  ter- 
mination of  every  verse,  glows  with  the  festive 
spirit  of  the  Tean  bard. 

When  I remarked  the  coincidence  of  style, 
which  existed  between  the  early  Greek  writers 
and  the  bards  of  Erin,  Glorvina  replied,  with  a 
smile, 

“ In  drawing  this  analogy,  you  think,  perhaps, 
to  flatter  my  national  vanity  ; but  the  truth  is,  we 
trace  the  spirit  of  Milesian  poetry  to  a higher 
source  than  the  spring  of  Grecian  genius ; for 
many  figures  in  Irish  song  are  of  Oriental  origin ; 
and  the  bards  who  ennobled  the  train  of  our  Mile- 
sian founders,  and  who  awakened  the  soul  of 
song  here,  seem,  in  common  with  the  Greek 
poets,  ‘ to  have  kindled  their  poetic  fires  at  those 
unextinguished  lamps  which  burn  within  the  tomb 


152 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


of  oriental  genius.’  Let  me,  however,  assure 
you,  that  uo  adequate  version  of  an  Irish  poem 
can  be  given ; for  the  peculiar  construction  of  the 
Irish  language,  the  felicity  of  its  epithets,  and 
force  of  its  expressions,  bid  defiance  to  all 
translation.” 

“ But  while  your  days  and  nights  are  thus  de- 
voted to  Milesian  literature,”  you  will  say,  “ what 
becomes  of  Blackstone  and  Coke  ?” 

Faith,  e’en  what  may  for  me — the  mind,  the 
mind,  like  the  heart,  is  not  to  be  forced  in  its  pur- 
suits ; and,  I believe,  in  an  intellectual,  as  in  a 
physical  sense,  there  are  certain  antipathies  which 
reason  may  condemn,  but  not  vanish.  Coke  is 
to  me  a dose  of  ipecacuhana ; and  my  present 
studies,  like  those  poignant  incentives  which 
stimulate  the  appetite  without  causing  repletion. 
It  is  in  vain  to  force  me  to  a profession,  against 
which  my  taste,  my  habits,  my  very  nature  re- 
volts ; and  if  my  father  persists  in  his  determina- 
tion, why,  as  a dernier  resort^  I must  turn  historio- 
grapher to  the  prince  of  Inismore.  ******** 

Like  the  spirit  of  Milton,  I feel  myself,  in  this 
new  world,  “ vital  in  every  part 

**  All  heart  I live,  all  head,  all  eye,  all  ear. 

Ail  intellect,  all  senso.^’ 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


153 


LETTER  X. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Thi  more  T know  of  this  singular  girl,  the 
more  the  happy  discordia  consors  of  her  charac- 
ter awakens  my  curiosity  and  surprise.  I never 
beheld  such  a union  of  intelligence  and  simplici- 
ty, infantine  playfulness  and  profound  reflecticii 
as  her  character  exhibits.  Sometimes  when  1. 
think  I am  trifling  with  a child,  I find  I am  con- 
versing with  a philosopher ; and  sometimes  in 
the  midst  of  the  most  serious  and  interesting  con- 
versation, some  impulse  of  the  moment  seizes  on 
her  imagination,  and  a vein  of  frolic  humour  and 
playful  sarcasm  is  indulged  at  the  expense  of  my 
most  sagacious  arguments  or  philosophic  gravity. 
Her  reserve  (unknown  to  herself)  is  gradually 
giving  way  to  the  most  bewitching  familiarity. 

When  the  priest  is  engaged,  I am  suflfered  to 
tread  with  her  the  “ pathless  grass,”  climb  the 
mountain’s  steep,  or  ramble  along  the  sea-beat 
coast,  sometimes  followed  by  her  nurse,  and 
sometimes  by  a favourite  little  dog  only. 

Of  nothing  which  concerns  her  country  is  she 
ignorant ; and  when  a more  interesting,  a more 
soul-felt  conversation,  cannot  be  obtained,  1 love 
to  draw  her  into  a little  national  chit-chat. 

Yesterday,  as  we  were  walking  along  the  base 
of  that  mountain  from  which  I first  beheld  hei 


154 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


dear  residence,  (and  sure  I may  say  with  Petrarch, 
“ Benedetto  sia  il  giorno  e’i  mese  e’lanno,”)  sev- 
eral groups  of  peasants  (mostly  females,)  passed 
us,  with  their  usual  courteous  salutations,  and  ap- 
parently dressed  in  their  holiday  garbs. 

“ Poor  souls  !”  said  Glorvina — this  is  a day 
ot  jubilee  to  them,  for  a great  annual  fair  is  held 
in  the  neighbourhood.” 

‘‘  But  from  whence,”  said  I “do  they  draw  the 
brightness  of  those  tints  which  adorn  their  coarse 
garments  ; those  gowns  and  ribbons,  that  rival  the 
gay  colouring  of  that  heath  hedge  ; those  bright 
blue  and  scarlet  mantles  ? Are  they,  too,  vestiges 
of  ancient  modes  and  ancient'  taste  ?” 

“ Certainly  they  are,”  she  replied,  “ and  the 
colours  which  the  Irish  were  celebrated  for  wear- 
ing and  dyeing  a thousand  years  back,  are  now 
most  prevalent.  In  short,  the  ancient  Irish,  like 
the  Israelites,  were  so  attached  to  this  many 
coloured  costume,  that  it  became  the  mark  by 
which  the  different  classes  of  the  people  were 
distinguished.  Kings  were  limited  to  seven  colours 
in  their  royal  robes ; and  six  were  allowed  the 
bards.  What  an  idea  does  this  give  of  the  rev- 
erence  paid  to  superior  talent  in  other  times  by 
Dur  forefathers  ! But  that  bright  yellow  you  now 
behold  so  universally  worn,  has  been  in  all  ages 
their  favourite  hue.  Spenser  thinks  this  custom 
came  from  th  3 East ; and  Lord  Bacon  accounts 
for  the  propensity  of  the  Irish'to  it,  by  supposing 
it  contributes  to  longevity.” 


THE  WILE  IRAati 


“ But  where,”  said  I,  “do  these  poor  people 
procure  so  expensive  an  article  as  saffron,  to 
gratify  their  prevailing  taste  ?” 

“ I have  heard  Father  John  say,”  she  returned, 
“ that  saffron,  as  an  article  of  importation,  could 
never  have  been  at  any  time  cheap  enough  for 
general  use.  And  I believe  formerly,  as  7iow, 
they  communicated  this  bright  yellow  tinge 
with  indigenous  plants,  with  which  this  country 
abounds. 

“ See,”  she  added,  springing  lightly  forward, 
and  culling  a plant  which  grew  from  the  moun- 
tain’s side — “ see  this  little  blossom,  which  they 
call  here,  ‘ yellow  lady’s  bed  straw,’  and  which 
you,  as  a botanist,  will  better  recognize  as  the 
Galieens  horum;  it  communicates  a beautiful  yel- 
low ; as  does  the  Lichen  juniperinus,  or  ‘ cypress 
moss,’  which  you  brought  me  yesterday ; and  I 
think  the  resida  Leuteola,  or  ‘ yellow  weed,’  sur- 
passes them  all.* 

“ In  short,  the  botanical  treasures  of  our  coun- 
try, though  I dare  say  little  known,  are  inex- 
haustible. 

“ Nay,”  she  continued,  observing,  I believe,  the 
admiration  that  sparkled  in  my  eyes,  “ give  me 

* Purple,  blue,  and  green  dyes,  were  introduced  by 
Tighwmas  the  Great,  in  the  year  of  the  world  2814.  The 
Irish  also  possessed  the  art  of  dyeing  a fine  scarlet;  so  early 
as  the  day  of  St.  Bennia,  a disciple  of  St.  Patrick,  scarlet 
clot!  es  and  robes  high  embroidered,  are  mentioned  in  the 
^Dok  of  Glaiidelogh. 


156 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


no  credit,  1 beseech  you,  for  this  local  informa 
tion,  for  there  is  not  a peasant  girl  in  the  neighs 
bourhood,  but  will  tell  you  more  on  the  subject.” 

While  she  was  thus  dispensing  knowledge  with 
the  most  unaffected  simplicity  of  look  and  man- 
ner, a group  of  boys  advanced  towards  us,  with  a 
car  laden  with  stones,  and  fastened  to  the  back 
of  an  unfortunate  dog,  which  they  were  endeav- 
ouring to  train  to  this  new  species  of  canine 
avocation,  by  such  unmerciful  treatment  as  must 
have  procured  the  wretched  animal  a speedy  re- 
lease from  all  his  sufferings. 

Glorvina  no  sooner  perceived  this,  than  she 
flew  to  the  dog,  and  while  the  boys  looked  all 
amaze,  effected  his  liberation,  and  by  her  caress- 
es, endeavoured  to  soothe  him  into  forgetfulness 
of  his  late  sufferings  ; then,  turning  to  the  ring- 
leader, she  said : 

“ Dermot,  I have  so  often  heard  you  praised 
for  your  humanity  to  animals,  that  I can  scarcely 
believe  it  possible  that  you  have  been  accessory 
to  the  sufferings  of  this  useful  and  affectionate 
animal ; he  is  just  as  serviceable  to  society  in 
his  way,  as  you  are  in  yours,  and  you  are  just  as 
well  able  to  drag  a loaded  cart  as  he  is  to  draw 
that  little  car.  Come  now,  I am  not  so  heavy  as 
the  load  you  have  destined  him  to  bear,  and  you 
are  much  stronger  than  your  dog,  and  now  you 
shall  draw  me  home  to  the  castle^  and  then  give 
me  your  opinion  on  the  subject.” 

In  one  moment  his  companions,  laughing  vo- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


157 


dferously  at  the  idea,  had  the  stones  fiung  out 
of  the  little  vehicle,  and  fastened  its  harness  on 
the  broad  shoulders  ol  the  half  pouting,  half 
smiling  Dermot ; and  the  next  moment  this  little 
agile  sylph  was  seated  in  the  car. 

Away  went  Dermot,  dragged  on  by  the  rest  of 
the  boys,  while  Glorvina,  delighted  as  a child 
with  her  new  mode  of  conveyance,  laughed  with 
all  her  heart,  and  kissed  her  hand  to  me  as  she 
tiew  along;  while  I,  trembling  for  her  safety,  en- 
deavoured to  keep  pace  with  her  triumphal  chari- 
ot, till  her  wearied,  breathless  Phaeton,  unable  to 
run  any  further  with  his  lovely,  laughing  burthen, 
begged  a respite. 

“ How  !”  said  she,  “ weary  of  this  amusement, 
and  yet  you  have  not  at  every  step  been  cruelly 
lashed  like  your  poor  dog.” 

The  panting  Dermot  hung  his  head,  and  said 
in  Irish,  “ the  like  should  not  happen  again.” 

“ It  is  enough,”  said  Glorvina,  in  the  same  lan- 
guage— we  are  all  liable  to  commit  a fault,  but 
let  us  never  forget  it  is  in  our  power  to  correct 
it.  And  now  go  to  the  castle  where  you  shall 
have  a good  dinner,  in  return  for  the  good  and 
pleasant  exercise  you  have  procured  me.” 

The  boys  were  as  happy  as  kings.  Dermot 
was  unyoked,  and  the  poor  dog,  wagging  his  tail 
in  token  of  his  felicity,  accompanied  the  gratified 
group  to  the  castle. 

When  Glorvina  had  translated  to  me  the  sub-i 


\ 


14 


158 


THE  WIL1>  IRISH  GIRL. 


jecl  of  her  short  dialogue  with  Dermot,  she  ad^ 
ded,  laughing, 

“ Oh  how  I should  like  to  be  dragged  about 
this  way  for  two  or  three  hours  every  day : never 
do  I enter  into  any  little  folly  of  this  kind,  that  I 
do  not  sigh  for  those  sweet  hours  of  my  childhood 
when  I could  play  the  fool  with  impunity.” 

“ Play  the  fool !”  said  I — “ and  do  you  call  this 
playing  the  fool— this  dispensation  of  humanity, 
this  culture  of  benevolence  in  the  youthful  mind, 
these  lessons  of  truth  and  goodness,  so  sweetly, 
so  simply  given 

“ Nay,”  she  returned,  “ you  always  seem  in* 
dined  to  flatter  me  into  approbation  of  myself  ] 
but  the  truth  is,  I was  glad  to  seize  on  the  oppor- 
tunity of  lecturing  that  urchin  Dermot,  who, 
though  I praised  his  humanity,  is  the  very  beadle 
to  all  the  unfortunate  animals  in  the  neighbour- 
hood.  But  I have  often  had  occasion  to  remark, 
that,  by  giving  a virtue  to  these  neglected  children 
which  they  do  not  possess,  I have  awakened 
their  emulation  to  attain  it.” 

“ To  say  that  you  are  an  angel,”  said  I,  “ is  to 
say  a very  commonplace  thing,  which  every  man 
says  to  the  woman  he  either  does,  or  affects  to 
admire  ; and  yet” 

‘‘Nay,” — interrupted  she,  laying  her  hand  on 
my  arm,  and  looking  up  full  in  my  face  with  that 
.arch  glance  I have  so  often  caught  revelling  in 
her  eloquent  eye — “ I am  not  emulous  of  a place 
in  the  angelic  choir ; canonization  is  more  conso- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


159 


nant  to  my  papistical  ambition  ; then  let  me  be 
your  saint — your  tutelar  saint,  and” — 

‘‘And  let  me,”  interrupted  I,  impassionately, 
“ let  me,  like  the  members  of  the  Greek  church, 
adore  my  saint,  not  by  prostration,  but  by  a kiss 
— and,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I pressed  my 
lips  to  the  beautiful  hand  which  still  rested  on 
my  arm,  and  from  which  I first  drew  a glove  that 
has  not  since  left  my  bosom,  nor  been  re-demand- 
ed by  its  charming  owner. 

This  little  freedom  (which,  to  another,  would 
have  appeared  nothing)  was  received  with  a de- 
gi'ee  of  blushing  confusion,  that  assured  me  it 
was  the  first  of  the  kind  ever  olfered  , even  the 
fair  hand  blushed  its  sense  of  my  boldness,  and 
enhanced  the  pleasure  of  the  theft  by  the  difficul- 
ty it  promised  of  again  obtaining  a similar  favour. 

By  heaven  there  is  infection  in  the  sensitive 
delicacy  of  this  creature,  which  even  my  harden- 
ed confidence  cannot  resist. 

No  prieux  Chevalier,  on  being  permitted  to  kiss 
the  tip  of  his  liege  lady’s  finger,  after  a seven 
years’  seige,  could  feel  more  pleasantly  embar- 
rassed than  I did,  as  we  walked  on  in  silence, 
until  we  were  happily  relieved  by  the  presence 
of  the  old  garrulous  nurse,  who  came  out  in 
search  of  her  young  lady — for,  like  the  princesses 
in  the  Greek  tragedies,  my  Princess  seldom  ap- 
pears without  the  attendance  of  this  faithful  repre- 
sentative of  fond  maternity. 

Foi  ffie  rest  of  the  walk  she  talked  mostly  to 


160 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  nurse  in  Irish,  and  at  the  castle  gate  we  part- 
ed— she  to  attend  a patient,  and  I to  retire  to  my 
own  apartment,  to  ruminate  on  my  morning’s  ram 
ble  with  this  fascinating  lusus  natures. 

Adieu, 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XI. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

The  drawing  which  I made  of  the  castle  is 
finished — the  Prince  is  charmed  with  it,  and 
Glorvina  insisted  on  copying  it.  This  was  as  I 
expected — as  I wished  ; and  I took  care  to  finish 
it  so  minutely,  that  her  patience  (of  which  she 
has  no  great  store)  should  soon  be  exhausted  in 
the  imitation,  and  I should  have  something  more 
of  her  attention  than  she  generally  affords  me  at 
my  drawing-desk. 

Yesterday,  in  the  absence  of  the  priest,  I read 
to  her  as  she  drew.  After  a thousand  little  symp- 
toms of  impatience  and  weariness — “ here,”  said 
she,  yawning — “ here  is  a straight  line  I can 
make  nothing  of — do  you  know,  Mr.  Mortimer,  I 
never  could  draw  a perpendicular  line  in  my  life. 
See  now  my  pencil  will  go  into  a curve  or  an 
angle  ; so  you  must  guide  my  hand,  or  J shall 
draw  it  all  zig-zag.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


161 


I “ cruide  her  hand  to  draw  a straight  line  !” 

“Nay  then,”  said  I,  with  the  ostentatious  gravity 
of  a pedagogue  master,  “ I may  as  well  do  the 
drawing  myself.” 

“Well  then,’^said  she,  playfully,  “ do  it  your- 
self.” 

Away  she  flew  to  her  harp ; while  I,  half  la- 
menting, half  triumphing,  in  my  forbearance,  took 
her  pencil  and  her  seat.  I perceived,  however, 
that  she  had  not  even  drawn  a single  line  of  the 
picture,  and  yet  her  paper  was  not  a mere  carte- 
hlanche — for  close  to  the  margin  was  written  in  a 
fairy  hand,  ‘ Henry  Mortimer,  April  2d,  10  o’clock,’ 
— the  very  day  and  hour  of  my  entrance  into  the 
castle ; and  in  several  places,  the  half  defaced 
features  of  a face  evidently  a copy  of  my  own, 
were  still  visible. 

If  any  thing  could  have  rendered  this  little 
circumstance  more  deliciously  gratifying  to  my 
heart,  it  was,  that  I had  been  just  reading  to  her 
the  anecdote  of  “ the  Maid  of  Corinth?'* 

I raised  my  eyes  from  the  paper  to  her  with  a 
look  that  must  have  spoken  my  feelings  ; but  she, 
unconscious  of  my  observatk)n  began  a favourite 
air  of  her  favourite  Carolan’s,  and  supposed  me  to 
be  busy  at  the  perpendicular  line. 

Wrapt  in  her  charming  avocation,  she  seemed 
borne  away  by  the  magic  of  her  own  numbers, 
and  thus  inspired  and  inspiring  as  she  appeared, 
faithful,  as  the  picture  formed  was  interesting,  I 
took  her  likeness.  Conceive  for  a moment  a 
L 14* 


162 


THE  WILD  II  ISH  GIRL. 


loriD  full  of  character,  a.ncl  full  of  gi:ace,  bend  mg 
ov'er  an  instrumerit  singularly  picturesque — a pro- 
fusion of  auburn  hair  fastened  up  to  the  top  of 
the  finest  formed  head  I ever  beheld,  with  a 
golden  bodkin — an  armlet  of  curious  workman- 
ship glittering  above  a finely  turned  elbow,  and 
the  loose  sleeves  of  a flowing  robe  drawm  up  un- 
usually high,  to  prevent  this  drapery  from  sweep- 
ing the  chords  of  the  instrument.  The  expres- 
sion of  the  divinely  touching  countenance  breath- 
ed all  the  fervour  of  genius  under  the  influence 
of  inspiration,  and  the  contours  of  the  face,  from 
the  peculiar  uplifted  position  of  the  head,  were 
precisely  such,  as  lends  to  painting  the  happiest 
line  of  feature,  and  shade  of  colouring.  Before 
I had  near  finished  the  lovely  picture,  her  song 
ceased ; and  turning  towards  me,  who  sat  oppo- 
site her,  she  blushed  to  observe  how  intensely 
my  eyes  were  fixed  on  her. 

“ I am  admiring,”  said  T,  carelessly,  “ the  sin- 
gular elegance  of  your  costurne : it  is  indeed  to  me 
a never  failing  source  of  wonder  and  admiration.” 

“ I am  not  sorry,”  she  replied,  “ to  avail  myself 
of  my  father’s  prejudices  in  favour  of  our  ancient 
national  costume,  which,  with  the  exception  of 
the  drapery  being  made  of  modern  materials  (on 
the  antique  model.,)  is  absolutely  drawn  from  the 
wardrobes  of  my  great  grand  dames.  This  armlet, 
I have  heard  my  father  say,  is  near  four  hundred 
years  old,  and  many  of  the  ornaments  and  jewels 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


163 


you  have  seen  me  wear,  are  of»a  date  no  less 
ancient.” 

“But  how,”  said  I,  while  she  continued  to  tune 
her  harp,  and  I to  ply  the  pencil,  “ how  comes 
it  that  in  so  remote  a period,  we  find  the  riches 
of  Peru  and  Golconda  contributing  their  splen- 
dour to  the  magnificence  of  Irish  dress  ?” 

“ O !”  she  replied,  smiling,  “ we  too  had  our 
Peru  and  Golconda  in  the  bosom  of  our  country — 
for  it  was  once  thought  rich  not  only  in  gold  and 
silver  mines,  but  abounded  in  pearls,*  amethysts, 
and  other  precious  stones  : even  a few  years 
back.  Father  John  saw  some  fine  pearls  taken  out 
of  the  river  Ban  ;t  and  Mr.  O’Halloran,  the  cele- 
brated Irish  historian',  declares  that  within  his 
memory,  amethysts  of  immense  value  were  found 
in  Ireland.”! 

* “ It  should  seem/’  says  Mr.  Walker,  in  his  ingenious 
and  elegant  essay  on  Ancient  Irish  Dress — that  Ireland 
teemed  with  gold  and  silver,  for  as  well  as  in  the  laws  re- 
cited, we  find  an  act  ordained  34th,  Henry  VIII,  that  mer- 
chant strangers  should  pay  40  pence  custom  for  every 
pound  of  silver  they  carried  out  of  Ireland ; and  Lord 
Stratford,  in  one  of  his  letters  from  Dublin  to  his  royal  mas- 
ter, says,  ‘ with  this  I land  you  an  ingot  of  silver  of  300  oz.’ 

t Pearls  abounded,  and  still  are  found  in  this  country 
and  were  of  such  repute  in  the  11th  century,  that  a pres 
ent  of  them  was  sent  to  the  famous  Bishop  Anselm,  by  a 
Bishop  of  Limerick. 

tj:  The  author  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Knox,  barrister  at  law, 
Dublin,  for  the  sight  of  some  beautiful  amethysts,  which 
belonged  to  his  female  ancestors,  and  which  many  of  th« 
lapidaries  of  London,  after  a diligent  search,  found  it  im 
possible  to  match. 


164 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


“ I remjmbe#  reading  in  the  life  of  St.  Bridget, 
that  the  King  of  Leinster  presented  to  her  father 
a sword  set  with  precious  stones,  which  the  pious 
saint,  more  charitable  than  honest,  devoutly  stole, 
and  sold  for  the  benefit  of  the  poor;  but  it  should 
seem  that  the  sources  of  our  national  treasures 
are  now  shut  up  like  the  gold  mines  of  La  Valais, 
for  the  public  weal,  I suppose  ; for  we  now  hear 
not  of  amethysts  found,  pearls  discovered,  or  gold 
mines  worked;  and  it  is  to  the  caskets  of  my  fe- 
male ancestors  that  I stand  indebted  that  my  dress 
or  hair  is  not  fastened  or  adorned  like  those  of  my 
humbler  countrywomen,  with  a wooden  bodkin.” 

“ That,  indeed,”  said  I,  “ is  a species  of  orna- 
ment 1 have  observed  very  prevalent  with  your 
fair  paysannes ; and  of  whatever  materials  it  is 
made,  • when  employed  in  such  a happy  service 
as  I now  behold  it,  has  an  air  of  simple,  useful 
elegance,  which  in  my  opinion  constitutes  the 
great  art  of  female  dress.” 

“ It  is  at  least,”  replied  she,  “ the  most  ancient 
ornament  we  know  here — for  we  are  told  that  the 
celebrated  palace  of  E mania,*  erected  previous 
to  the  Christian  era,  was  sketched  by  the  famous 
Irish  Empress  Macha,  with  the  bodkin. 

“ I remember  a passage  from  a curious  and 
ancient  romance  in  the  Irish  language,  that  fasten- 
ed wonderfully  upon  my  imagination  when  I read 
it  to  my  father  in  my  childhood,  and  which  gives 

♦ The  resident  palace  of  the  Kings  of  Ulster,  of  which 
Colgan  speaks  as  “ rendolens  splendorum.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


165 


lo  the  bodkin  a very  early  origin  : — it  ran  thus^ 
and  is  called  the  ‘ Interview  between  Fionn  M^Cnm- 
hal  and  Cannan' 

Cannan,  when  he  said  this,  was  seated  at 
table;  on  his  rialit  hand  was  seated  his  wile,  and 
upon  his  left  his  beautiful  daughter,  so.  exceeding- 
ly fair,  that  the  snow  driven  by  the  winter  storms 
surpassed  not  her  in  fairness,  and  her  cheeks  wore 
tlie  blood  of  a young  calf ; her  hair  hung  in  curling 
ringlets,  and  her  teeth  were  like  pearl — a spacious 
veil  hung  from  her  lovely  head  down  her  delicate 
form,  and  the  veil  was  fastened  by  a golden  bodkin.’ 

“ The  bodkin,  you  know,  is  also  an  ancient 
Greek  ornament,  and  mentioned  by  Vulcan,  as 
among  the  trinkets  he  was  obliged  to  forge.”* 

By  the  time  she  had  finished  this  curous  quo- 
tation in  favour  of  the  antiquity  of  her  dress,  her 
harp  was  tuned,  and  she  began  another  exquisite 
old  Irish  air  called  the  “ Dream  of  the  Yountj 
Man,”  which  she  accompanied  rather  by  a plain- 
tive murmur^  than  with  her  voice’s  full  melodious 
powders.  It  is  thus  this  creature  winds  round  the 
heart,  while  she  enlightens  the  mind,  and  en- 
trances the  senses. 

1 had  finished  the  sketch  in  the  meantime,  and 
just  beneath  the  figure,  and  above  her  flattering 
inscription  of  my  name,  I wrote  with  my  pencil, 

“ ’Twas  thus  Apelles  bask’d  in  beauty’s  blaze, 

Nor  felt  ;he  danger  of  the  steadfast  gazef^ 

while  she,  a few  minutes  after,  with  that  restless 
♦ See  Iliad,  13,  17. 


/66  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 

ness  that  seemed  to  govern  all  her  actions  to-day 
arose,  put  her  harp  aside  and  approached  me  with 

“Well,  Mr.  Mortimer,  you  are  very  indulgent 
to  my  insullerable  indolence — let  me  see  what 
you  have  ' done  for  me ; and  looking  over  my 
shoifder,  she  beheld  not  the  ruins  of  her  castle, 
but  a striking  likeness  of  her  blooming  self ; and 
sending  her  head  close  to  the  paper,  read  the 
lines,  and  that  name  honoured  by  the  inscription 
of  her  own  fair  hand. 

For  the  world  I would  not  have  looked  her 
full  in  the  face  ; but  from  beneath  my  downcast 
eye  I stole  a transient  glance : the  colour  did 
not  rush  to  her  cheek,  (as  it  usually  does  under 
the  influence  of  any  powerful  emotion)  but  rather 
deserted  its  beautiful  standard,  as  she  stood  with 
her  eyes  riveted  on  .the  picture,  as  though  she 
dreaded  by  their  removal  she  should  encounter 
those  of  the  artist. 

After  about  three  minutes  endurance  of  this  mu- 
tual confusion,  (could  you  believe  me  such  a block- 
head ?)  the  priest,  to  our  great  relief,  entered  the 
room. 

Glorvina  ran  and  shook  hands  with  * him,  as 
though  she  had  not  seen  him  in  an  age,  and  flew 
out  of  the  room ; while  1 effacing  the  quotation 
but  not  the  honoured  inscription,  asked  Father 
John’s  opinion  of  my  effort  at  portrait  painting. 
He  acknowledged  it  was  a most  striking  resem- 
blance, and  added, 

“ Now  you  will  indeed  give  a coup  de  grace  to 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


167 


th«  partiality  of  the  Prince  in  your  favour,  and 
you  will  rank  so  much  the  higher  in  his  estima- 
tion in  proportion  as  his  daughter  is  dearer  to 
him  than  his  ruinsr 

Thus  encouraged,  I devoted  the  rest  of  the  day 
to  copying  out  this  sketch  : and  I have  finished  the 
picture  in  that  light  tinting,  so  effective  in  ^his  kind 
of  charactG#istic  drawings.  That  beautifully  pen- 
sive expression  which  touches  the  countenance 
of  Glorvina,  when  breathing  her  native  strains,  I 
have  most  happily  caught ; and  her  costume,  atti- 
tude, and  harp,  form  as  happy  a combination  of 
traits,  as  a single  portrait  perhaps  ever  presented. 

When  it  was  shown  to  the  Prince,  he  gazed  on 
it  in  silence,  till  tears  obscured  his  glance;  then 
laying  it  down  he  embraced  me,  but  said  nothing. 
Had  he  detailed  the  merits  of  the  picture  in  all 
the  technical  farago  of  cognoscenti  phrase,  his 
comments  would  not  have  been  half  so  eloquent 
as  this  simple  action,  and  the  silence  which  ac- 
companied it  Adieu, 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XI 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Here  is  a honne  houche  for  your  antiquarian 
taste,  and  Ossianic  palate  ! Almost  every  even- 
ing after  ves]  er,  wo*  all  assemble  in  a spacious 


168 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


hall,*  which  had  been  shut  up  for  near  a century 
and  first  opened  by  the  present  prince  when  he 
was  driven  for  shelter  to  his  paternal  ruins. 

This  Vengolf^  this  Valk-halla^  where  the  very 
spirit  of  Woden  seems  to  preside,  runs  the  full 
length  of  the  castle  as  it  now  stands  (for  the  cen- 
tre of  the  building  only,  has  escaped  the  delapi- 
dations  of  time,)  and  its  beautifully  arched  roof 
is  enriched  with  numerous  devices  which  mark 
the  spirit  of  that  day  in  which  it  was  erect- 
ed. This  very  curious  roof  is  supported  by  two 
rows  of  pillars  of  that  elegant  spiral  lightness 
which  characterises  the  Gothic  order  in  a certain 
stage  of  its  progress.  The  floor  is  a finely  tes- 
sellated pavement ; and  the  ample  but  ungrated 
hearths  which  terminate  it  at  either  extremity, 
blaze  every  evening  with  the  cheering  contribu- 
tions of  a neighbouring  bog.  The  windows 
which  are  high,  narrow,  and  arched,  command 
on  one  side  a noble  view  of  the  ocean,  on  the 
other  they  are  closed  up. 

When  I enquired  of  Father  John  the  cause  of 
this  singular  exclusion  of  a very  beautiful  land 

* Amidst  the  ruins  of  Buan  Ratha,  near  Limerick,  is 
a princely  hall  and  spacious  chambers  ; the  fine  stucco  in 
many  of  which  is  yet  visible,  though  uiiiiihabitable  for  near 
a century.” — O’Halloraii^s  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the 
History  and  Antiquities  of  Ireland,  p 8. 

In  every  town,  every  village,  every  considerable  tract 
of  land,  the  spacious  ruins  of  princely  residence  or  re 
ligious  edifices,  the  palace,  the  castle,  or  tlie  abbey,  are  to 
be  seen. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


J69 


ne\f,  he  replied,  ‘‘that from  those  windows  were 
to  be  seen  the  g-reater  part  of  that  rich  tract  of 
land  which  once  formed  the  territory  of  the 
Princes  of  Inismore  and  since,”  said  he,  “ the 
possessions  of  the  present  Prince  are  limited  to 
a few  hereditary  acres  and  a few  rented  farms, 
he  cannot  bear  to  look  on  the  domains  of  his  an- 
cestors nor  ever  goes  beyond  the  confines  of  this 
little  peninsula.” 

This  very  curious  apartment  is  still  called  the 
banquetting  hall — where 

**  Stately  the  feast,  and  high  the  cheer 
Girt  witli  iiiany'a  valiant  peer,’’ 

was  once  celebrated  in  all  the  boundless  extrava- 
gance and  convivial  spirit  of  ancient  Irish  hospi- 
tality. But  it  now  .serves  as  an  armory,  a mu- 
seum, a cabinet  of  national  antiquities  and  na- 
tional curiosities.  In  short,  it  is  the  receptacle 
^f  all  those  precious  relics,  which  the  Prince  has 
been  able  to  rescue  from  the  wreck  of  his  fami- 
ly splendour. 

Here,  when  he  is  seated  by  a blazing  hearth  in 
an  immense  arm-chair,  made,  as  he  assured  me, 
of  the  famous  wood  of  Shilelah,  his  daughter  by 
his  side,  his  harper  behind  him,  and  his  domestic 
altar  not  destitute  of  that  national  libation  which 

♦ I understand  that  it  is  only  a few  years  back,  since  the 
present  respectable  representatives  of  the  M'Dermot  family 
opened  those  windows  which  the  Prince  of  Coolavin  closed 
up,  upon  a principle  similar  to  that  by  which  the  Prince 
of  Inismore  was  actuated. 


15 


170  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

is  no  disparagement  to  princely  taste,  since  it  has 
received  the  sanction  of  imperial  approbation  '* 
his  gratified  eye  wandering  over  the  scattered 
insignia  of  the  former  prowess  of  his  family  ; his 
gratified  heart  expanding  to  the  reception  of  life’s 
sweetest  ties — domestic  joys  and  social  endear- 
ments ; — he  forgets  the  derangement  of  his  cir- 
cumstances— he  forgets  that  he  is  the  ruined 
possessor  of  a visionary  title  ; he  feels  only  that 
he  is  a man — and  an  Irishman ! While  the  tran- 
sient happiness  that  lights  up  the  vehement  feel- 
ings of  his  benevolent  breast,  effuses  its  warmth 
over  all  who  come  within  its  sphere. 

Nothing  can  be  more  delightful  than  the  even- 
ings passed  in  this  vengolf- — this  hall  of  Woden  ; 
where  my  sweet  Glorvina  hovers  round  us,  like 
one  of  the  beautiful  valkyries  of  the  Gothic  para- 
dise, who  bestow  on  the  spirit  of  the  departed 
warrior  that  heaven  he  eagerly  rushes  on  death 
to  obtain.  Sometimes  she  accompanies  the  old 
bard  on  her  harp,  or  with  her  voice  ; and  frequent- 
ly as  she  sits  at  her  wheel  (for  she  is  often  en- 
gaged in  this  simple  and  primitive  avocation,) 
endeavours  to  lure  her  father  to  speak  on  those 
subjects  most  interesting  to  him  or  to  me  ; or, 
joining  the  general  conversation,  by  the  playful- 
ness of  her  humour,  or  the  original  whimsicality 
of  her  sallies,  materially  contributes  to  the  “ molle 
atque  faceturn!'’  of  the  moment. 

♦Peter  the  Great,  of  Russia  was  fond  of  whiskey,  find 
used  to  say,  **  Of  all  wine,  Irish  wine  is  the  besL^' 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


171 


-On  the  evening  of  the  day  of  the  picture-scene, 
the  absence  of  Glorvina  (for  she  was  attending  a 
silk  servant)  threw  a gloom  over  our  little  circle. 
The  Prince,  for  the  first  time,  dismissed  the  harper, 
and  taking  me  by  the  arm,  walked  up  and  down 
the  hall  in  silence,  while  the  priest  yawned  over 
a book. 

I have  already  told  you  that  this  curious  hall 
is  the  emporium  of  the  antiquities  of  Inismore, 
which  are  arranged  along  its  walls,  and  suspend- 
ed from  its  pillars. — As  much  to  draw  the  Prince 
from  the  gloomy  reverie  into  which  he  seemed 
plunged,  as  to  satisfy  my  own  curiosity  and 
yours,  1 requested  his  highness  to  explain  some 
characters  on  a collar  which  hung  from  a pillar, 
and  appeared  to  be  plated  with  gold. 

Having  explained  the  motto,  he  told'  me  that 
this  collar  had  belonged  to  an  order  of  kniohthood 
hereditary  in  his  family — of  an  institution  more 
ancient  than  any  in  England,  by  some  centuries. 

“ How,”  said  I,  “ was  chivalry  so  early  known 
in  Ireland  ? and  rather,  did  it  ever  exist  here  ?” 

“ Did  it !”  said  the  Prince,  impatiently,  “ I be- 
lieve, young  gentleman,  the  origin  of  knighthood 
may  be  traced  in  Ireland  upon  surer  ground  than 
-in  any  other  country  whatever.*  Long  before 

♦ Mr.  O^Halloran,  with  a great  deal  of  spirit  and  inge- 
nuity, endeavours  to  prove  that  the  Gennaii  Knighthood 
(the  earliest  we  read  of  in  chivalry)  was  of  Irisli  origin; 
with  what  success  we  leave  it  to  the  impartial  reader 
to  udge.  It  is,  however,  certain,  that  the  German  ritter 


172 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  birth  of  Christ,  we  had  an  hereditary  ordet 
of.knighthGod  in  Ulster,  called  the  Knights  of  the 
Red  Branch.  They  possessed,  near  the"  royal 
palace  of  Ulster,  a seat,  called  the  Academy  of 
the  Red  Branch ; and  an  adjoining  hospital,  ex- 
pressively termed  the  House  of  the  Sorrowful 
Soldier. 

“ There  was  also  an  order  of  chivalry  here- 
ditary in  the  ro3^al  families  of  Munster,  named 
the  Sons  of  Deagha.,  from  a celebrated  hero  of 
that  name,  probably  their  founder.  The  Con- 
naught knights  were  called  the  Guardians  of 
Jorus,  and  those  of  Leinster,  the  Clan  of  Boisgna. 
So  famous,  indeed,  were  the  knights  of  Ireland, 
for  the  elegance,  strength,  and  beauty  of  their 
forms,  that  they  were  distinguished,  by  way  of 
pre-eminence,  by  the  name  of  the  Heroes  of  the 
Western  Isle. 

“ Our  annals  teem  with  instances  of  this  ro- 
mantic bravery  and  scrupulous  honour.  My 
memory,  though  much  impaired,  is  still  faithful  to 
some  anecdotes  of  both.  During  a war  between 
the  Connaught  arid  Munster  monarchs,  in  192, 
both  parties  met  in  the  plains  of  Lena,  in  this 
province  ; and  it  was  proposed  to  Goll  M‘Morni, 

or  knight,  bears  a very  close  analogy  to  the  Irish  riddaire. 
In  1394,  Richard  II,  in  his  tour  through  Ireland,  offered  to 
knight  the  four  provinidal  kings  who  came  to  receive  him 
in  Dublin.  But  tliey  excused  themselves,  as  having  re- 
ceived that  honour  from  their  parents  at  seven  years  old— 
that  being  the  age  in  which  the  kings  of  Ireland  knightod 
Iheir  eldest  sons. — See  Froissart. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


173 


chief  ot  the  Connaught  Knights,  to  attack  the 
Munstei  army  at  midnight,  which  would  have 
secured  him  victory.  He  nobly  and  indignantly 
replied  : ‘ On  the  day  the  arms  of  a knight  were 
put  into  my  hands,  I swore  never  to  attack  my 
enemy  at  night,  by  surprise,  or  under  any  kind 
of  disadvantage ; nor  shall  that  vow  now  be  bro- 
ken.’ « 

“ Besides  those  orders  of  knighthood  which  I ' 
have  already  named,  there  are  several  others* 
still  hereditary  in  noble  families,  and  the  honora- 
ble titles  of  which  are  still  preserved : such  as 
the  White  Knights  of  Kerry,  and  the  Knights  of 
Glynn : that  hereditary  in  my  family  was  the 
Knights  of  the  Valley ; and  this  collar,!  an  orna- 
ment never  dispensed  with,  was  found  about  fifty 
years  back  in  a neighbouring  bog,  and  worn  by 
my  father  till  his  death. 

“ This  gorget,”  he  continued,  taking  down  one 
which  hung  on  the  wall,  and  apparently  gratified 
by  the  obvious  pleasure  evinced  in  the  counte- 
nance of  his  auditor, — “ This  gorget  was  found 
some  years  after  in  the  same  bog.”  J 

♦ The  respectable  families  of  the  Fitzgeralds  still  bear  the 
title  of  their  ancestors,  and  are  never  named  but  as  the 
Kniglits  of  Kerry  and  of  Glynn. 

t One  of  these  collars  was  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  O’Hal- 
loran. 

t In  the  Bog  of  Cullen,  in  the  county  of  Tipperary,  some 
golden  gorgets  were  discovered,  as  were  also  some  cors 
lets  of  pure  gold  in  the  lands  of  Clonties,  county  of  Kerry 
— See  Smith’s  History  of  Ireland. 

15* 


174 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


“ And  this  helmet  ?”  said  I — 

“It' is  called  in  Irish,”  he  replied,  salet^ 
and  belonged,  with  this  coat  of  mail,  to  my  an- 
cestor who  was  murdered  in  this  castle.” 

1 coloured  at  this  observation,  as  though  I had 
been  myself  the  murderer. 

“ As  you  refer,  Sir,”  said  the  priest,  who  had 
dung  by  his  book  and  joined  us,  “ to  the  ancient 
Irish  for  the  origin  of  knighthood,*  you  will 
perhaps  send  us  to  the  Irish  Mala,  for  the  deri- 
vation of  the  word  mail.” 

“ Undoubtedly,”  said  the  national  Prince,  “ I 
should ; but  pray,  Mr.  Mortimer,  observe  this 
shield.  It  is  of  great  antiquity.  You  perceive 
it  is  made  of  wicker,  as  were  the  Irish  shields 
in  general ; although  I have  also  heard  they  were 
formed  of  silver,  and  one  was  found  near  Slimore, 
in  the  county  of  Cork,  plated  with  gold,  which 
sold  for  seventy  guineas.” 

“ But  here,”  said  I,  “ is  a sword  of  curious 
-workmanship,  the  hilt  of  which  seems  of  gold.” 

♦ At  a time  when  the  footstep  of  an  English  invader  had 
not  been  impressed  upon  the  Irish  coast,  the  celebrity  of 
the  Irish  knights  was  sung  by  the  British  minstrels.  Thus 
\nthe  old  romantic  tale  of  Sir  Cauline: 

In  Ireland, /c)T  over  the  sea, 

There  dwelleth  a bonnye  kinge, 

And  with  him  a yoinig  and  comiye  knight, 

Men  call  him  Syr  Cauline. 

Sir  Cauline’s  antagonist,  theEldridge  knight,  is  described 
as  being  “ a foul  payniin,^’  which  places  the  events,  the 
romantic  tale  delijf  sates,  in  the  earliest  era  of  Christianity 
in  Ireland. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


175 


“ It  is  in  fact  sj,”  said  the  priest  — “ Golden 
hiked  swords  have  been  in  sreat  abundance  throush 
Ireland;  and  it  is  a circumstance  singularly  curi- 
ous, that  a sword  found  in  the  bog  of  Cullen,  should 
be  of  the  exact  construction  and  form  of  those 
found  upon  the  plains  of  Canae.  You  may  suppose 
that  the  advocates  of  our  Milesian  origin  gladly 
seize  on  this  circumstance,  as  affording  new  arms 
against  the  sceptics  to  the  antiquity  of  our  nation.” 

“ Here  too  is  a very  curious  haubergeon,  once 
perhaps  impregnable  ! And  this  curious  battle- 
axe,”  said  I — 

“Was  originally  called,”  returned  the  Prince, 
“ Tuath  Catha^  or  axe  of  war,  and  was  put  into 
the  hands  of  our  Galloglasses,  or  second  rank 
of  military.” 

“ But  how  much  more  elegant,”  I continued, 
“ the  form  of  this  beautiful  spear  ; it  is  of  course 
of  a more  modern  date.” 

“ On  the  contrary,”  said  the  Prince,  “ this  is 
the  exact  form  of  the  cranuil  or  lance,  with  which 
Oscar  is  described  to  have  struck  Art  to  the  earth.” 

“ Oscar  !”  I repeated,  almost  starting — but  ad- 
ded— “ O,  true,  Mr.  Macpherson  tells  us  the  Irish 
have  some  wild  improbable  tales  of  Fingafs  he- 
roes among  them,  on  which  they  found  some  claim 
to  their  being  natives  of  this  country.” 

“ Some  claim  !”  repeated  the  Prince,  and  by 
one  of  those  motions  which  speak  more  than 
volumes,  he  let  go  my  arm,  and  took  his  usual 
station  I)y  the  fireside,  repeating,  some  claim  ! 


i76  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 

Whi  e I was  thiriiving  how  1 should  repair  ray 
involuntary  fault,  the  good  natured  priest  said, 
with  a smile, 

“ You  know,  my  dear  Sir,  that  by  one  half  of 
his  English  readers,  Ossian  is  supposed  to  be  a 
Scottish  bard  of  ancient  days  ; by  the  other  he 
is  esteemed  the  legitimate  offspring  of  Macpher- 
son’s  own  muse.  But  here,”  he  added,  turning  to 
me,  “ we  are  certain  of  his  Irish  origin,  from  the 
testimony  of  tradition,  from  proofs  of  historic 
fact,  and  above  all,  from  the  internal  evidences  of 
the  poems  themselves,  even  as  they  are  given 
us  by  Mr.  Macpherson. 

“ We,  who  are  from  our  infancy  taught  to  re- 
cite them,  who  bear  the  appellations  of  their  he- 
roes to  this  day,  and  who  reside  amidst  those 
very  scenes  of  which  the  poems,  even  according 
to  their  ingenious,  but  not  always  ingenuous  trans- 
lator, are  descriptive — we  know,  believe,  and  as- 
sert them  to  be  translated  from  the  fragments  of 
the  Irish  bards,  or  seanachies,  whose  surviving 
works  were  almost  equally  diffused  through  the 
Highlands  as  through  this  country.  Mr.  Mac- 
pherson combined  them  in  such  forms  as  his 
judgment  (too  classically  correct  in  this  instance) 
most  approved ; retaining  the  old  names  and 
events,  and  altering  the  dates  in  his  originals  as 
well  as  their  matter  and  form,  in  order  to  give  them 
a higher  antiquity  than  they  really  possess  ; sup- 
pressing many  proofs  which  they  contain  of  their 
Irish  origin,  and  studiously  avoiding  all  mention 


THE  AH’ILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


17T 


of  St  Patrick,  whose  name  frequently  occurs  in 
the  original  poems ; only  occasionally  alluding  to 
him  under  the  character  of  a Culdee ; conscious 
ihat  any  mention  of  the  Saint  would  introduce  a 
suspicion  that  these  poems  were  not  the  true 
compositions  of  Ossian,  but  those  of  Fileas  who, 
in  an  after  day,  committed  to  verse  the  traditional 
details  of  one  equally  renowned  iii  song  and 
arms.”* 

Here,  you  will  allow,  was  a blow  furiously 
aimed  at  all  my  opinions  respecting  these  poems, 
so  long  the  objects  of  my  enthusiastic  admiration: 
you  may  well  suppose  I was  for  a moment  quite 
stunned.  However,  when  I had  a little  recover- 
ed, I went  over  the  arguments  used  by  Macpher- 
son,  Blair,  &c.,  &c.,  &c.,  to  prove  that  Ossian 
was  a Highland  bard,  whose  works  'were  handed 
down  to  us  by  oral  tradition,  through  a lapse  of 
fifteen  hundred  years. 

“ And  yet,”  said  the  priest,  having  patiently 
he?trd  me  out — Mr.  Macpherson  confesses  that 
the  ancient  language  and  traditional  history  of  the 
Scottish  nation  became  confined  to  the  natives 
of  the  Highlands,  who  falling,  from  several  con- 
curring circumstances,  into  the  last  degree  of 
ignorance  and  barbarism,  left  the  Scots  so  desti- 

* Samiiir,  danghter  of  Fingal,  having  married  Cormae 
Gas,  tlieir  son  (says  Keating)  Modk  Corb,  retained  as  his 
friend  and  confidant  his  uncle  Ossian,  contrary  to  the  or- 
ders of  Cairbre  Liffeachair,  the  then  monarch,  against 
whom  the  Irish  militia  had  taken  up  arms.  Ossian  wai 
consequently  among  the  number  of  rebellious  chiefs. 

M 


278 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


lute  of  liistoric  facts,  that  thev  were  reduced  to 
ihe  ne  3essity  of  sending  Fordvm  to  Ireland  for 
their  h*  story,  from  whence  he  took  the  entire  first 
part  of  his  book.  For  Ireland,  owing  to  its  be- 
ing colonized  from  Phoenicia,  and  consequent 
early  introduction  of  letters  there,  was  at  that  pe- 
riod esteemed  the  most  enlightened'  country  in 
Europe : and  indeed  Mr.  Macpherson  himself 
avers,  that  the  Irish,  for  ages  antecedent  to  the 
Conquest,  possessed  a competent  share  of  that 
kind  of  learning  which  prevailed  in  Europe  ; and 
from  their  superiority  over  the  Scots,  found  no 
difficulty  in  imposing  on  the  ignorant  Highland 
seanachies,  and  establishing  that  historic  system 
which  afterwards,  for  want  of  any  other,  was 
universally  received. 

“ Now,  my  dear  friend,  if  historic  fact  and  tra- 
dition did  not  attest  the  poems  of  Ossian  to  be 
Irish,  probability  would  establish  it.  For  if  the 
Scotch  were  obliged  to  Ireland,  according  to  Mr. 
Macphyson’s  own  account,  not  only  for  their 
history  but  their  tradition,  so  remote  a one  as 
Ossian  must  have  come  from  the  Irish  ; for  Scot- 
land, as  Dr.  Johnson  asserts,  when  he  called  on 
Mr.  Macpherson  to  show  his  originals,  had  not 
an  Erse  manuscript  two  hundred  years  old.  Ar.d 
Sir  George  McKenzie,  though  himself  a Scotch- 
man,  declares,  “ that  he  had  in  his  possession,  an 
Irish  manuscript  written  by  Cairbre  Lifieachair.'*' 

♦Mr  O’Hallorari,  in  his  Introduction  to  the  study  of 
Irish  History,  . quotes  some  lines  from  a poem  still  ex- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  179 

monarch  of  Ireknd,  who  flourished  before  St 
Patrick’s  mission. 

“ But,”  said  J,  “ even  granting  these  beautiful 
poems  to  be  the  eflusions  of  Irish  genius,  it  is 
strange  that  the  feats  of  your  own  heroes  could 
not  supply  your  bards  with  subjects  for  their 
epic  verse.” 

“ Strange  indeed  it  would  have  been,”  said  the 
priest,  “and  therefore  they  have  chosen  the  most 
renowned  chiefs  in  their  annals  of  national  hero- 
ism, as  their  Achilleses,  their  Hectors,  and  Aga- 
memnons.” 

“ How  !”  exclaimed  I,  “ Is  not  Fingal  a Cale- 
donian chief  ? Is  he  not  expressly  called  King 
of  Morven?” 

“ Allowing  he  were  in  the  originals,  which 
he  is  not,”  returned  the  priest,  “ give  me  leave  to 
ask  you  where  Morven  lies  ?” 

“ Why,  I suppose  of  course  in  Scotland,”  said 
I,  a little  unprepared  for  the  question. 

“ Mr.  Macpherson  supposes  so  too,”  replied  he, 
smiling,  “ though  certainly  he  is  at  no  little  pains 
to  discover  where  in  Scotland.  The  fact  is, 
however,  that  the  epithet  of  Riagh  Mor  Fhionne^ 
which  Mr.  Macpherson  translates  King  of  Mor- 
ven, is  literally  King  or  Chief  of  the  Fhians,  or 
Fians,  a body  of  men  of  whom  Mr.  Macpherson 
makes  no  mention,  and  which,  indeed,  either  in 
the  annals  of  Scottish  history  or  Scottish  poetry, 

tiiKt,  composed  by  Torna  Ligis,  chief  po«l  to  Nial  thu 
Great,  wlio  flourished  in  the  fourth  century. 


180 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


would  be  vainly  sought.  Take  then  their  history 
as  extracted  from  the  book  of  Howth  into  the 
Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  in 
1786.* 

“ In  Ireland  there  were  soldiers  called  Fynjie 
Erin,  appointed  to  keep  the  sea-coast,  fearing 
foreign  invasion,  or  foreign  princes  to  enter  the 
realm  ; the  names  of  these  soldiers  were  Fin 
IVFCuil,  Coloilon,  Keilt,  Oscar,  M‘Ossyn,  Dermot, 
O’Doyne,  Collemagh,  Morna,  and  divers  others. 
These  soldiers  waxed  bold,  as  shall  appear  here- 
after, and  so  strong,  that  they  did  contrary  to  the 
orders  and  institutions  of  the  Kings  of  Ireland, 
their  chiefs  and  governors,  and  became  very 
strong  and  stout,  and  at  length  would  do  thing 

♦ Fionn,  the  son  of  Cuiiihal,  [from  whom,  says  Keating, 
the  established  militia  of  the  kingdom  were  called  Fion 
Erinne,]  was  first  married  to  Graine,  daguhter  to  Cormac, 
king  of  Ireland,  and  afterwards  to  her  sister,  and  descend- 
ed in  a sixth  degree  from  Niiagadh  Neacht,  king  of  Lein- 
ster. The  history,  laws,  requisites,  &c.,  of  the  P'ion-na 
Erin,  are  to  be  found  in  Keating’s  History  of  Ireland,  p.  269. 

Cormac,  at  the  head  of  the  Fion,  and  attended  by  Fingal, 
sailed  to  that  part  of  Scotland  opposite  Ireland,  where  he 
planted  a colony  as  an  establishment  for  Carbry  Riada,  his 
cousin-german.  This  colony  was  often  protected  from  the 
power  of  the  Romans  by  the  Fion,  under  the  command  of 
P’ingal,  occasionally  stationed  in  the  circumjacent  country 
“ Hence,’’  says  Walker,  “ the  claims  of  the  Scots  to  Fin.” 
In  process  of  time  this  colony  gave  monarchsto  Scotland, 
and  their  posterity  at  this  day  reign  over  the  British  empire. 
Fingal  fell  in  an  engagement  at  Ratlibree,  on  the  banks  of 
die  Boyne,  A.  D.  294 ; from  whence  the  name  of  Rathbreo 
was  changed  to  Killeen,  or  Cill-Fhiii,  the  tomb  of  Fin. 


THE  \VILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


181 


without  license  of  the  King  of  Ireland,  &c  , &c 
— It  is  added,  that  one  of  these  heroes  was  alive 
till  the  coming  of  St.  Patrick,  who  recited  the 
actions  of  his  compeers  to  the  Saint.  This  hero 
was  Ossian,  or,  as  we  pronounce  it,  Ossyn; 
whose  dialogues  with  the  Christian  missionary  is 
in  the  mouth  of  every  peasant,  and  several  of  them 
preserved  in  old  Irish  manuscripts.  Now  the 
Fingal  of  Mr.  Macpherson  (for  it  is  thus  he 
translates  Fin  M‘Cuil^  sometimes  pronounced 
and  spelled  Fionne  M‘Cumhal,  or  Fion  the  son  of 
Cumhal)  and  his  followers  appear  like  the  earth- 
born  myrmidons  of  Deucalion,  for  they  certainly 
have  no  human  origin  ; bear  no  connexion  with 
the  history  of  their  country  ; are  neither  to  be 
found  in  the  poetic  legend  or  historic  record* **  of 


* I know  but  of  one  instance  that  contradicts  the  asser- 
tion of  Father  John,  and  that  I borrow  from  the  allegori- 
cal Palace  of  Honour  ofGawin  Douglass,  Bishop  ofDun- 
keld,  who  places  Gaul,  son  of  Morni,  aiid  Fingal  among 
the  distinguisiied  characters  in  the  annals  of  legendary  ro- 
mance; yet  even  he  mentions  them  not  as  the  heroes  of 
Scottish  celebrity,  but  as  the  almost  fabled  demi-gods  of 
Ireland. 

**  And  now  the  wran  cam  out  of  Ailsay, 

And  Piers  Plowhman,  that  made  his  workmen  few 
Great  Gow  Mac  Morne  and  Fin  M‘Cowl,  and  how 
They  suld  be  goddis  in  Ireland,  as  they  say.” 

It  is  remarkable,  that  the  genius  of  Ossianic  style  still 
prevails  over  the  wild  effusions  of  the  modern  and  unlet- 
tered bards  of  Ireland ; while  even  the  remotest  lay  of 
Scottish  minstrelsy  respires  nothing  of  that  soul  which 
breathes  in  “ the  voice  of  Cona;”  and  the  metrical  flippan 

]6 


182 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Scotland,  and  are  even  furnished  with  appella- 
tions which  the  Caledonians  neither  previously 
possessed  nor  have  since  adopted.  They  are 
therefore  abruptly  introduced  to  our  kitowledge 
as  living  in  a barbarous  age,  yet  endowed  with 
every  perfection  that  renders  them  the  most  re- 
tined,  heroic,  and  virtuous  of  men.  So  that  while 
we  grant  to  the  interesting  poet  and  his  heroes  our 
boundless  admiration,  we  cannot  help  considering 
them  as  solecisms  in  the  theory  of  human  nature. 

“ But  with  us,  Fingal  and  his  chiefs  are  beings 
of  real  existence,  their  names,  professions,  rank, 
characters,  and  feats,  attested  by  historic  fact  as 
well  as  by  poetic  eulogium.  Fingal  is  indeed  ro- 
mantically brave,  benevolent,  and  generous,  but 
he  is  turbulent,  restless,  ambitious  : he  is  a man 
as  well  as  a hero  ; and  both  his  virtues  and  his 
vices  bear  the  stamp  of  the  age  and  country  in 
which  he  lived.  His  name  and  feats,  as  well  as 
those  of  his  chief  officers,  bear  an  intimate  con- 
nexion with  our  national  history. 

“ Fionne,  or  Finnius,  was  the  grandsire  of  Mile- 
sins ; and  it  is  not  only  a name  to  be  met  with 
through  every  period  of  our  history,  but  there 
are  few  old  families  even  at  this  day  in  Ireland, 

cy  which  betrays  its  existence,  seems  neither  to  rival,  or 
cope  with  that  toiicliing  sublimity  of  measure  through 
whose  impressive  medium  the  genius  of  Ossiaii  effuses  iti 
inspiration,  and  which,  had  it  been  known  to  the  eariji 
bards  of  Scotland,  had  probably  been  imitated  and  adopted, 
in  Ireland,  it  has  ever  been  and  is  still  the  measure  in 
wiiich  the  ^ons  of  Song  breathe  “ their  wood  Jiotes  wild  * 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


183 


who  have  not  the  appellative  of  Finnius  in  some 
one  or  other  of  its  branches  ; and  a large  tract  of 
the  province  of  I.einster  is  called  Fingal ; a title 
in  possession  of  one  of  our  most  noble  and  an- 
cient families. 

“ Nay,  if  you  please,  you  shall  hear  our  old 
nurse  run  through  the  whole  genealogy  of  Mac- 
pherson’s  hero,  which  is  frequently  given  as  a 
theme  to  exercise  the  memory  of  the  peasant 
children.”* 

“ Nay,”  said  I,  nearly  overpowered,  “ Macpher- 
son  assures  us  the  Highlanders  also  repeat  many 
of  Ossian’s  poems  in  the  original  Erse  : nay,  that 
even  in  the  Isle  of  Sky,  they  still  show  a stone 
which  bears  the  form  and  name  of  Cuchullin’s 
dog.”t 

* They  run  it  over  thus : Oscar  Mac  Ossyn,  Mac  Fioii^ 
MacCuil,  Mac  Cormic,  Mac  Arte,  Mac  Fiervin,  &-c.,  &c. 
That  is,  Oscar  the  son  of  Ossiaii,  the  son  of  Fion,  &c. 

t There  is  an  old  tradition  current  in  Connaught,  of 
which  Bran,  the  favourite  dog  of  Ossian  is  the  hero.  In  a 
war  between  the  king  of  Loclilin  and  the  Fians,  a battle 
continued  to  be  fought  on  equal  terms  for  so  long  a period,, 
that  it  was  at  last  mutually  agreed  that  it  should  be  decided! 
in  a combat  between  Ossian’s  Bran  and  the  famous  Cudubh,. 
or  dark  greyhound,  of  the  Danisli  monarch.  This  grey- 
hound had  already  performed  incredible  feats,  and  wa» 
never  to  be  conquered  until  his  name  was  found  out.  The 
warrior  dogs  fought  in  a space  between  the  two  armies,, 
and  with  such  fury,  says  the  legend,  in  a language  absolute- 
ly untranslatable,  that  they  tore  up  the  stony  bosom  of  tbe 
earth,  until  they  rendered  it  perfectly  soft,  and  again  tramps 
led  on  it  with  such  force,  that  they  made  it  a of  rocky  sub- 
itance.  The  Cudubh  had  nearly  gained  the  victory,  whet9 


184 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


“ This  is  the  most  flagrant  error  of  all,”  ex- 
claimed the  Prince,  abruptly  breaking  his  sullen 
silence — “ for  he  has  scynchronized  heroes  who 
flourished  in  two  distant  periods  ; both  Cuchullin 
and  Conal  Cearneath  are  historical  characters 
with  us  ; they  were  Knights  of  the  Red  Branch, 
and  flourished  about  the  birth  of  Christ.  Where- 
as Fingal,  with  whom  he  has  united  them,  did 
not  flourish  till  near  three  centuries  after.  Tt  is 
indeed  Macpherson’s  pleasure  to  inform  us  that 
by  the  Isle  of  Mist  is  meant  the  Isle  of  Sky,  and 
on  that  circumstance  alone  to  rest  his  claim  on 
Cuchullin^ s being  a Caledonian  ; although,  through 
the  whole  poems  of  Fingal  and  Temora,  he  is 
not  once  mentioned  as  such;  it  is  by  the  transla- 
tor’s notes  only  we  are  informed  of  it.” 

“ It  is  certain,”  said  the  priest — “ that  iii  .he 
first  mention  made  of  Cuchullin  in  the  poem  of 
Fingal,  he  is  simply  denominated  ‘the  son  of  Se- 
mo,’  ‘the  Ruler  of  High  Temora,’  ‘ Mossy  Tura’s 
Chief.‘’*  So  called,  says  Macpherson,  from  his 

the  baldheaded  Cona'.,  mriiing  his  face  to  the  east,  and 
biting  his  thumb,  a ceremony  difficult  to  induce  him  to 
perform,  and  which  always  endowed  him  with  the  gift  of 
divination,  made  a sudden  exclamation  of  encouragement 
to  Bran,  the  first  word  of  which  found  the  name  of  the 
greyhound,  who  lost  at  once  his  prowess  and  the  victory. 

* The  groves  of  Tnra,  or  Tnar,  are  often  noticed  in 
Irish  song.  Emiinh  Acnuic,  or  Ned  of  the  Hill,  has  men- 
tioned it  ill  one  of  his  happiest  and  most  popular  poems.  It 
was  supposed  to  be  in  the  county  of  Armagh,  province  of 
IMsten 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


iS5 


castle  on  the  coast  of  Ulster,  where  he  dwelt  he^ 
fore  he  took  the  management  of  the  affairs  of 
Ireland  into  his  hands  ; though  the  singular  cause 
which  could  induce  the  lord  of  the  Isle  of  Sky  to 
reside  in  Ireland  previous  to  his  political  engage- 
ments in  the  Irish  state,  he  does  not  mention. 

“ In  the  same  manner  we  are  told,  that  his 
three  nephews  came  from  Streamy  Etna,  one  of 
whom  married  an  Irish  lady ; but  there  is  no 
mention  made  of  the  real  name  of  the  place  of 
their  natiyity,  although  the  translator  assures  us, 
in  another  note,  that  they  also  were  Caledonians. 
But,  in  fact,  it  is  from  the  internal  evidences 
of  the  poems  themselves,  not  from  the  notes  of 
Mr.  Macpherson,  nor  indeed  altogether  from  his 
beautiful  but  unfaitl/ul  translation,  that  we  are  to 
decide  on  the  nation  to  which  these  poems  be- 
long. In  Fingal,  the  first  and  most  perfect  of  the 
collection,  that  hero  is  first  mentioned  by  Cuchul- 
lin  as  Fingal,  King  of  Desarts — in  the  original — • 
Inis  na  hf  hiodhuide,  or  Woody  Island ; without 
any  allusion  whatever  to  his  being  a Caledonian. 
And  afterwards  he  is  called  King  of  Selma,  by 
Swaran,  a name,  with  little  variation  given  to 
several  castles  in  Ireland.  Darthula’s  castle  is 
named  Selma;  and  another,  whose  owner  I do 
not  remember,  is  termed  Selemath.  Slimora,  to 
w'hose  fir  the  spear  of  Foldath  is  compared,  is  a 
mountain  in  the  province  of  Munster,  and  through 
out  the  whole,  even  of  Mr.  Macpherson’s  transla 
hon,  the  characters,  names,  allusions,  incidents 

16* 


166 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


and  scenery  are  all  Irish.  And  in  fact,  our  Irish 
spurious  ballads^  as  Mr.  Macpherson  calls  them, 
are  the  very  originals  out  of  which  he  has  spun 
the  materials  for  his  version  of  Ossian.* 

“ Dr.  Johnson,  who  strenuously  opposed  the 
idea  of  Ossian  beino^  the  work  of  a Scotch  bard 
of  the  third  century,  asserts  that  the  ‘ Erse  never 
was  a written  language,  and  that  there  is  not  in 
the  world  a written  Erse  manuscript  a hundred 
years  old.’  He  adds,  ‘ The  Welsh  and  Irish  are 
cultivated  tongues,  and  two  hundred  years  back 
insulted  their  English  neighbours  for  the  instabil- 
ity  of  their  orthography.’  Even  the  ancient  Irish 
letter  was  unknown  in  the  Highlands  in  1690,  for 
an  Irish  version  of  the  Bible  being  given  there 
by  Mr.  Kirk,  was  printed  in  the  Roman  character. 

“ When  Dr.  Young, f led  by  tasteful  enterprize, 

* “ Some  of  the  remaining  footsteps  of  these  old  warriors 
are  known  by  their  first  names  at  this  time  [says  Keating] 
as  for  instance,  Suidhe  Finn,  or  the.  Palace  of  Fin,  at 
Sliabh  na  Mann,  &c.,  &c  ” There  is  a mosnitain  in  Done- 
gal still  called  Alt  Ossoin,  surrounded  by  all  that  wild  sub- 
limity of  scenery  so  exquisitely  deliniated  through  the  ele- 
gant medium  of  Macpherson’s  translation  of  Ossian;  and  in 
its  environs  many  Ossianic  tales  are  still  extant. 

In  an  extract  given  by  Camden  from  an  account  of  the 
manners  of  the  native  Irish  in  the  sixteenth  century — “they 
think,  [says  the  author]  the  souls  of  the  deceased  are  in 
communion  with  the  famous  men  of  those  places,  of  whom 
they  retain  many  stories  and  sonnet.s — as  of’ the  giants  Fin, 
Mac  Huyle,  Osker,  Mac  Osshin,  &c.,  (See.,  and  they  say, 
through  illusion,  they  often  see  them.” 

t Dr  Yonng,  ate  Bishop  of  Clonfert,  who  united  in  hif 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL 


187 


vdsited  the  Highlands  (on  an  Ossianic  research) 
in  1784,  he  collected  a number  of  Gaellic  poems 
respecting  the  race  of  the  Fieris,  so  renowned  in 
the  annals  of  Irish  heroism,*  and  found,  that  the 
orthography  was  less  pure  than  that  among  us  ; 
for,  he  says,  “ the  Erse  being  only  a written 
language  within  these  few  years,  no  means  were 
yet  afforded  of  forming  a decided  orthographic 
standard,”  But  he  augurs,  from  the  improvement 
which  had  lately  taken  place,  that  we  soon  may 
expect  to  see  the  Erse  restored  to  the  original 
purity  which  it  possesses  in  the  mother  country. 
And  these  very  poems,  whence  Mr.  Macpherson 
has  chiefly  constructed  his  Ossian,  bear  such 
strong  internal  proof  of  their  Irish  origin,  as  to 
contain  in  themselves  the  best  arguments  that  can 
be  adduced  agrainst  the  Scottish  claimants  on  the 
poems  of  the  bard.  But  in  their  translation,! 

ch.'iracter  the  extremes  of  human  perfection  ; the  most  un- 
blemished virtue  to  the  most  exalted  genius. 

* See  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  1786. 

t From  the  remotest  antiquity  we  have  seen  the  mili- 
tary order  distinguished  in  Ireland,  codes  of  piilitary  laws 
and  discipline  established,  and  their  dress  and  rank  in  the 
state  ascertained.  The  learned  Keating  and  others,  tell  us 
that  these  militia  were  called  Fine,  from  Fion  Mac  Cum- 
hal ; but  it  is  certainly  a great  error  ; the  word  fine,  strictly 
implying  a military  corps.  Many  places  in  the  island  re- 
tain to  this  day  the  names  of  some  of  the  leaders  ofthis  body 
of  men,  and  whole  volumes  of  poetical  fictions  have  been 
grafted  upon  their  exploits.  The  manuscripts  which  I 
have,  after  giving  a particular  account  of  Filings  descent, 
his  inheritance,  his  acquisitions  from  the  king  of  Leinster 
»nd  hii  great  military  command,  immediately  adds,  ^ bik 


188 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


many  passages  are  perverted,  in  order  to  deprive 
Ireland  of  being  the  residence  of  Finga'l’s  heroes.^’ 

“ I remember,”  said  the  Prince,  ‘‘  when  you 
read  to  me  a description  of  a sea  fight  between 
hhngal  and  Swaran,  in  Macpherson’s  translation, 
that  I repeated  to  you,  in  Irish,  the  very  poem 
whence  it  was  taken,  and  which  is  still  very  cur- 
rent here,  under  the  title  of  Laoid  Mhanuis 
IWhoirr 

“ True,”  returned  the  priest,  “ a copy  of  which 
:s  deposited  in  the  University  of  Dublin,  with 
another  Irish  MS.  entitled,  ‘ Oran  eadas  Ailte 
agus  do  Maronnan^  whence  the  battle  of  Lora  is 
taken.” 

The  Prince  then,  desiring  Father  John  fb  give 
him  down  a bundle  of  old  manuscripts  which  lay 
on  a shelf  in  the  hall  dedicated  to  national  tracts, 
after  some  trouble  produced  a copy  of  a poem, 
called  “ The  Conversation  of  Ossian  and  St.  Pat- 
rick,” the  original  of  which,  Father  John  assured 
me,  was  deposited  in  the  library  of  the  Irish 
University. 

It  is  to  this  poem  that  Mr.  Macpherson  alludes, 
when  he  speaks  of  the  dispute  reported  to  have 
taken  place  between  Ossian  and  a Culdee. 

At  my  request  he  translated  this  curious  contro- 
versial tract.  The  dispute  was  managed  on  both 
sides  with  a great  deal  of  polemic  ardour.  St. 

the  reader  must  not  expect  to  meet  here  with  such  .storiea 
of  him  and  his  heroes  as  the  vulgar  Irish  hfve.'*^ — Dr. 
Warner 


THE  W LD  IRISH  GIRL. 


189 


Patrick,  with  apostolic  zeal,  shuts  tlie  gates  of 
mercy  on  all  whose  faith  differs  from  his  own, 
and,  with  an  unsaintly  vehemence  extends  the 
exclusion  in  a pointed  manner,  to  the  ancestors 
of  Oss^-tn,  who,  he  declares,  are  suffeiing  in  the 
limbo  of  tortured  spirits.* 

The  bard  tenderly  replies,  “ It  is  hard  to  be- 
lieve thy  tale,  O man  of  the  white  book ! that 
Fion,  or  one  so  generous^  should  be  in  captivity 
with  God  or  man.” 

When,  however,  the  saint  persists  in  the  as- 
surance, that  not  even  the  generosity  of  the  de- 
parted hero  could  save  him  from  the  house  of 
torture,  the  failing  spirit  of  “ the  King  of  Harps” 
suddenly  sends  forth  a lingering  flash  of  Its  wont-^ 
ed  fire  ; and  he  indignantly  declares,  “ that  if  the 
Clan  of  Boisgno  were  still  in  being,  they  would 
liberate  their  beloved  general  from  this  threaten- 
ed hell.” 

The  Saint,  however,  growing  warm  in  the  ar- 
gument, expatiates  on  the  great  difficulty  of  any 
soul  entering  the  court  of  God  : to  which  the  in- 
fidel bard  beautifully  replies  : — Then  he  is  not 
like  Fionn  M^Cuil,  or  chief  of  the  Fians ; for  every 

* Notwithstaiidiiig  the  sceptical  obstinacy  that  Os&ian 
here  displays,  there  is  a current  tradition  of  his  having 
been  present  at  a baptismal  ceremony  performed  by  the 
Saint,  who  accidentally  struck  the  siiarp  point  of  his  cro- 
eier  thr3ugh  the  hard’s  foot,  who,  supposing  it  part  of  the 
ceremony,  remained  transfixed  to  the  earth  without  a mmr 
iner. 


190 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


man  upon  the  earth  might  enter  his  court  withou 
asking  his  permission.” 

Thus,  as  you  perceive,  fairly  routed,  I however 
artfully  proposed  terms  of  capitulation,  as  though 
my  defeat  was  yet  dubious. 

‘‘  Were  I a Scotchman,”  said  I,  “ I should  be 
furnished  with  more  effectual  arms  against  you ; 
but  as  an  Englishman,  I claim  an  armed  neutrali- 
ty, which  I shall  erideavour  to  preserve  between 
the  two  nations.  At  the  same  time  that  I feel 
the  highest  satisfaction  in  witnessing  the  just 
pretentions  of  that  country  (which  now  ranks  in 
my  estimation  next  to  my  own)  to  a work  which 
would  do  hoiiour  to  an^  country  so  fortunate  as  to 
claim  its’author  as  her  son.” 

The  Prince,  who  seemed  highly  gratified  by 
this  avowal,  shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  ap- 
parently flattered  by  his  triumph  ; and  at  that  mo- 
ment Glorvina  entered. 

“ O,  my  dear!”  said  the  Prince,  “ you  are  just 
come  in  time  to  witness  an  amnesty  between  Mr. 
Mortimer  and  me.” 

“ I should  much  rather  witness  the  amnesty 
than  the  breach,”  returned  she,  smiling. 

“We  have  been  battling  about  the  country 
of  Ossian,”  said  the  priest,  “ with  as  much  ve- 
hemence as  the  claimants  on  the  birthplace  of 
Homer.” 

“ O ! I know  of  ol  I,”  cried  Glorvina,  “ that 
you  and  my  father  are  natural  allies  on  that  point 
of  contention  and  I must  confess,  it  was  ungen- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  191 

erous  in  both  to  oppose  your  united  strength 
against  Mr.  Mortimer’s  single  force.” 

“ What,  then,”  said  the  Prince,  good  humour- 
edly,  “ I suppose  you  would  have  deserted  your 
national  standard,  and  have  joined  Mr.  Mortimer, 
merely  from  motives  of  compassion.” 

“ Not  so,  my  dear  sir,”  said  Glorvina,  faintly 
blushing,  “ but  I should  have  endeavoured  to  have 
compromised  betw'een  you.  To  you  I would 
have  accorded  that  Ossian  was  an  Irishman,  of 
which  1 am  as  well  convinced  as  of  any  other 
self-evident  truth  whatever,  and  to  Mr.  Mortimer 
I would  have  acknowledged  the  superior  merits 
of  Mr.  Macpherson’s  poems,  as  compositions, 
over  those  wild  effusions  of  our  Irish  bards, 
whence  he  compiled  them. 

“ Long  before  I could  read,  I learned  on  the 
bosom  of  my  nurse,  and  in  my  father’s  arms,  to 
recite  the  songs  of  our  national  bards,  and  almost 
since  I could  read,  the  Ossian  of  Macpherson  has 
been  the  object  of  my  enthusiastic  admiration. 

‘‘  In  the  original  Irish  poems,  if  my  fancy  is 
sometimes  dazzled  by  the  brilliant  flashes  of  na- 
tive genius,  if  my  heart  is  touched  by  the  strokes 
of  nature,  or  my  soul  elevated  by  sublimity  of 
sentiment,  yet  my  interest  is  often  destroyed, 
and  my  admiration  often  checked,  by  relations  so 
wildly  improbable,  by  details  so  ridiculously  gro- 
tesque, that  though  these  stand  forth  as  the  most 
undeniable  proofs  of  their  authenticity  and  the 
remoteness  of  the  day  in  which  they  were  com* 


192  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

posed,  yet  I reluctantly  suffer  my  mind  to  be  con* 
vinced  at  the  expense  of  my  feeling  and  my 
taste.  But  in  the  soul-stealing  strains  of  “ the 
Voice  of  Cona,”  as  breathed  throu-^h  the  refined 
medium  of  Macpherson’s  genius,  no  incongruity 
of  style,  character,  or  manner  disturbs  the  pro- 
found interest  they  awaken.  P^or  my  own  part, 
when  my  heart  is  coldly  void,  when  my  spirits 
are  sunk  and  drooping,  I fly  to  my  English  Ossian, 
and  then  my  sufferings  are  soothed,  and  every 
desponding  spirit  softens  into  a sweet  melancholy, 
more  delicious  than  joy  itself ; while  I experi- 
ence in  its  perusal  a similar  sensation  as  when, 
in  the  stillness  of  an  autumnal  evening,  I expose 
my  harp  to  the  influence  of  the  passing  breeze, 
which  faintly  breathing  on  the  chords,  seems  to 
call  forth  its  own  requiem  as  it  expires.” 

“ Oh,  Macpherson  !”  I exclaimed,  “ be  thy  spirit 
appeased,  for  thou  hast  received  that  apotheosis 
thy  talents  have  nearly  deserved,  in  the  eulogium 
of  beauty  and  genius,  and  from  the  lip  of  an  Irish- 
woman.” 

This  involuntary  and  impassioned  exclama- 
tion extorted  from  the  Prince  a smile  of  gratified 
parental  pride,  and  overwhelmed  Glorvina  with 
confusion.  She  could,  I believe,  have  spared.it 
before  her  father,  and  received  it  with  a bow  and 
a blush.  Shortly  after  she  left  the  room. 

Adieu ! I thought  to  have  returned  to  M— 
house,  but  I know  not  how  it  is 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL, 


m 


^ Mais  un  iiiviiiciWe  coiitraint 
I^alg  re,  mO'i  fixe  ici  mes  pas, 

Et  til  sais  qiie  pour  aller  a Corinth, 

Le  desirseul  lie  sufiit  pas.” 

Adieu,  H,  M. 


LETTER  XIII. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

The  conductor  this  girl  is  inexplicable.  Since 
the  unfortunate  picture  scene  three  days  bs  jk,  she 
has  excused  herself  twice  from  the  drawing  desk  ; 
and  to-day  appeared  at  it  with  the  priest  by  her 
side.  Her  playful  familiarity  is  vanished,  and  a 
chill  reserve,  uncongenial  to  the  native  ardour  of 
her  maimer  has  succeeded.  Surely  she  cannot  be 
so  vain,  so  weak,  as  to  mistake  my  attentions  to 
her  as  a young  and  lovely  woman,  my  admiration 
of  her  talents,  and  my  surprise  at  the  originalityof 
her  character,  for  a serious  passion.  And  suppos 
ino-  me  to  be  a wanderer  and  a hirelino-,  affect  to 
reprove  my  temerity  by  haughtiness  and  disdain. 

Would  you  credit  it!  by  Heavens,  I am  some- 
times weak  enough  to  be  on  the  very  point  of  tell- 
ing her  who  and  what  I am,  when  she  plays  off  her 
little  airs  of  Milesian  pride  and  female  supercili- 
ousness. ' You  perceive,  therc5fore,  by  the  con- 
duct of  this  little  Irish  recluse,  that  on  the  subject 
of  love  and  vanity,  wrman  is  everywhere,  and  i^ 
N 17 


194 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


all  situations  the  same.  For  what  coquette  reared  in 
the  purlieus  of  St.  James’s,  could  be  more  a portee 
to  those  effects  which  denote  the  passion,  or  more 
apt  to  suspect  she  had  awakened  it  into  existence, 
than  this  inexperienced,  unsophisticated  being! 
who  1 suppose  never  spoke  to  ten  men  in  her 
life,  save  the  superanuated  inhabitants  of  her  pa- 
ternal ruins.  Perhaps,  however,  she  only  means 
to  check  the  growing  familiarity  of  my  manner, 
and  to  teach  me  the  disparity  of  rank  which  ex- 
ists between  us  ; for,  with  all  her  native  strength 
of  mind,  the  influence  of  invariable  example  and 
precept  has  been  too  strong  for  her,  and  she  has 
unconsciously  imbibed  many  of  her  father’s  pre- 
judices respecting  antiquity  of  descent  and  nobili- 
ty of  birth.  She  will  frequently  say,  O ! such 
a one  is  a true  Milesian!” — or,  “ he  is  a descend- 
ant of  the  English  Irish;”  or,  “ they  are  new  peo- 
ple— we  hear  nothing  of  them  till  the  wars  of 
Cromwell,”  and  so  on.  Yet  at  other  times,  when 
reason  lords  it  over  prejudice,  she  will  laugh  at  that 
weakness  in  others,  she  sometimes  betrays  in 
herself. 

The  other  day,  as  we  stood  chatting  at  a win- 
dow together,  pointing  to  an  elderly  man  who 
passed  by,  she  said,  “ there  goes  a poor  Con- 
nauorht  orentleman,  who  would  rather  starve  than 
work — he  is  a follower  of  the  family  and  has 
been  just  entertaining  my  father  with  an  account 
of  our  ancient  splendour.  We  have  too  many  in- 
stances of  this  species  of  mania  among  us. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


195 


“ The  celebrated  Bishop  of  Cl-oyne  relates  an 
anecdote  of  a kitchen-maid,  who  refused  to  carry 
out  cinders,  because  she  was  of  Milesian  descent. 
And  Father  John  tells  a story  of  a young  gentle- 
man in  Limerick,  who,  being  received  under  the 
patronage  of  a nobleman  going  out  as  governor 
general  of  India,  sacrificed  his  interest  to  his 
national  pride  ; for  having  accompanied  his  lord- 
ship  on  board  of  the  vessel  which  was  to  convey 
them  to  the  East,  and  finding  himself  placed  at 
the  foot  of  the  dining  table,  he  instantly  arose, 
and  went  on’^shore,  declaring  that  ‘ as  a true  Mile- 
sian^ he  would  not  submit  to  any  indignity,  to 
purchase  the  riches  of  the  East  India  Company. 

“ All  this,”  continued  Glorvina,  “ is  ridiculous, 
nay,  it  is  worse,  for  it  is  highly  dangerous  and 
fatal  to  the  community  at  large.  It  is  the  source 
of  innumerable  disorders,  by  promoting  idleness, 
and  consequently  vice.  It  frequently  checks  the 
industry  of  the  poor,  and  limits  the  exertions  of 
the  rich,  and  perhaps  is  not  among  the  least  of 
those  sources  whence  our  national  miseries  flow. 
At  the  same  time,  I must,  own,  I have  a very 
high  idea  of  the  virtues  which  exalted  birth  does 
or  ought  to  bring  with  it.  Marmontel  elegantly 
observes,  ‘ nobility  of  birth  is  a letter  of  credit 
given  us  on  our  country,  upon  the  security  of  our 
ancestors,  in  the  conviction  that  at  a proper  period 
of  life  we  shall  acquit  ourselves  with  honour  to 
those  who  stand  engaged  for  us.’ 

Observe,  that  this  passage  was  quoted  in  th« 


196 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


first  person,  but  not,  as  in  the  original,  in  the 
second,  and  with  an  air  of  dignity  that  elevated 
her  pretty  little  head  some  inches. 

“ Since,”  she  continued,  “ we  are  all  the  beings 
of  education,  and  that  its  most  material  branch, 
example,  lies  vested  in  our  parents,  it  is  natural 
to  suppose  that  those  superior  talents  or  virtues 
which  in  early  stages  of  society  are  the  purchase 
of  worldly  elevation,  become  hereditary,  and  that 
the  noble  principles  of  our  ancestors  should  de- 
scend to  us  with  their  titles  and  estates.” 

Ah,”  said  I,  smiling,  “ these  are  the  ideas  of 
an  Irish  Princess,  reared  in  the  palace  of  her  an- 
cestors on  the  shores  of  the  Atlantic  ocean.” 

‘‘  They  may  be,”  she  returned,  “ the  ideas  of  an 
inexperienced  recluse,  but  I think  they  are  not 
less  the  result  of  rational  supposition,  strength- 
ened by  the  evidence  of  internal  feeling;  for 
though  I possessed  not  that  innate  dignity  of 
mind  which  instinctively  spurned  at  the  low  sug- 
gestion of  vicious  dictates,  yet  the  consciousness 
of  the  virtues  of  those  from  whom  I am  descended, 
would  prevent  me  from  sullying  by  an  unworthy 
action  of  mine,  the  unpolluted  name  I had  the 
honour  to  bear.” 

She  then  repeated  several  anecdotes  of  the  he- 
roism, rectitude,  and  virtue  of  her  ancestors  of 
noth  sexes,  adding,  “ this  was  once  the  business 
of  our  Bards,  Fileas,  and  Seanaclh  ^s;  but  we  are 
now  oblijred  to  have  recourse  to  our  own  memo 
ries,  in  order  to  support  our  own  dignity. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRl . 


197 


‘ But  do  not  suppose  I am  so  weak  as  to  be 
dazzled  by  a sound,  or  to  consider  mere  title  in 
any  other  light  than  as  a oolden  toy  judiciously 
worn  to  secure  the  respect  of  the  vulgar,  who 
are  incapable  of  appreciating  that  ‘ which  surpass- 
eth  show,’*  which,  as  my  father  says,  is  some- 
times given  to  him  who  saves,  and  sometimes 
bestowed  on  him  who  betrays  his  country.  O ! 
no  ; for  I would  rather  possess  one  beam  of  that 
genius  which  elevates  your  mind  above  all  world- 
ly distinction,  and  those  principles  of  integrity 
which  breathe  in  your  sentiments  and  ennoble 
your  soul,  than ” 

Thus  hurried  away  by  the  usual  impetuosity 
of  her  feelings,  she  abruptly  stopped,  fearful, 
perhaps,  that  she  had  gone  too  far.  And  then,  af- 
ter a moment  added — “ but  who 'will  dare  to  bring 
the  soul’s  nobility  in  competition  with  the  short- 
lived elevation  which  man  bestows  on  man  !” 

This  was  the  first  direct  compliment  she  ever 
paid  me  ; and  I received  it  with  a silent  bow,  a 
throbbing  heart,  and  a colouring  cheek. 

Is  she  not  an  extraordinary  creature  ! I meant 
to  have  given  you  an  unfavourable  opinion  of  her 
prejudices  ; and  in  transcribing  my  documents  of 
accusation,  I have  actually  confirmed  myself  in  a 
better  opinion  of  her  heart  and  understanding  than 

* “ He  feels  no  ennobling  principles  in  his  owl 
heart,  who  wishes  to  level  all  the  artificial  institutes  which 
have  been  adopted  for  giving  body  to  opinion,  and  per 
inanencG  to  future  esteem.’^ — Burke. 

17* 


198 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


I ever  before  indulged  in.  For  to  think  w(dl  of 
her,  is  a positive  indulgence  to  iny  philanthropy, 
after  having  thought  so  ill  of  all  her  sex. 

But  her  virtues  and  her  genius  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  ice  which  crystalizes  round  her 
heart;  and  which  renders  her  as  coldly  inditierent 
to  the  talents  and  virtues  with  which  her  fancy 
has  invested  me,  as  though  they  were  in  posses- 
sion of  a hermit  of  fourscore.  Yet,  God  knows, 
nothing  less  than  cold  does  her  character  appear. 
That  mutability  of  complexion  which  seems  to  flow 
perpetually  to  the  influence  of  her  evident  feel- 
ings and  vivid  imagination,  that  ethereal  warmth 
which  animates  her  manners  ; the  force  and  en- 
ergy of  her  expressions,  the  enthusiasm  of  her 
disposition,  the  uncontrolable  smile,  the  involun- 
tary tear,  the  spontaneous  sigh  — Are  these  indi- 
cations of  an  icy  heart  ? And  yet,  shut  up  as  we 
are  together,  thus  closely  associated,  the  sympa- 
thy of  our  tastes,  our  pursuits  ! But  the  fact  is, 
I begin  to  fear  that  I have  imported  into  the 
shades  of  Inismore  some  of  my  London  presump- 
tion : and  that,  after  all,  I know  as  little  of  this 
charming  sport  of  Nature,  as  when  I first  beheld 
her — possibly  my  perceptions  have  become  as 
sophisticated  as  the  objects  to  whom  they  have 
hitherto  been  directed;  and  want  refinement  and 
subtilty  to  enter  into  all  the  delicate  minutm  of 
her  superior  and  original  character,  which  is  at 
imce  both  natural  and  national.  Adieu  ! 

H.  M. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


m 


LETTER  XIV. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

To  DAY  I was  present  at  an  interview  grantee! 
oy  the  Prince  to  two  contending  parties,  who 
came  to  ask  law  of  him^  as  they  term  it.  This,  I 
am  told,  the  Irish  peasantry  are  ready  to  do  upon 
every  slight  difference  ; so  that  they  are  the  most 
litigious,  or  have  the  nicest  sense  of  right  and 
justice  of  any  people  in  the  world. 

Although  the  language  held  by  this  little  judi- 
cial meeting  was  Irish,  it  was  by  no  means  neces- 
sary it  should  be  understood  to  comprehend,  in 
some  degree,  the  subject  of  discussion  ; for  the 
gestures  and  countenances  both  of  the  judge  and 
the  clients  were  expressive  beyond  all  concep- 
tion : and  I plainly  understood,  that  almost  every 
other  word  on  both  sides  was  accompanied  by  a 
species  of  local  oath,  sworn  on  the  first  object  that 
presented  itself-to  their  hands,  and  strongly  mark- 
ed the  vehemence  of  the  national  character. 

When  I took  notice  of  this  to  Father  John,  he 
replied, 

“ It  is  certain,  that  the  habit  of  confirming  every 
assertion  with  an  oath,  is  as  prevalent  among  the 
Irish  as  it  was  among  the  ancient,  and  is  among 
the  modern  Greeks.  And  it  is  remarkable,  that 
even  at  this  day,  in  both  countries,  the  nature  and 
form  of  their  adjurations  and  oaths  are  perfectly 


TtiE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


similar  : a Greek  will  still  swear  by  his  pareiits,  oi 
his  children;  an  Irishman  frequently  swears  ‘ bv 
iny  father,  who  is  no  more  !’  ‘ by  my  mother  in  the 
grave  !’  Virgil  makes  his  pious  iEneas  swear  by 
his  head.  The  Irish  constantly  swear  ‘ by  my 
hand,’ — ‘ by  this  hand,’ — or,  ‘ by  the  hand  of  my 
gossip  !’*  There  is  one  who  has  just  sworn  by 
the  Cross ; another  by  the  blessed  stick  he  holds 
in  his  hand.  In  short,  no  intercourse  passes  be- 
tween them  where  confidence  is  required,  in 
which  oaths  are  not  called  in  to  confirm  the  trans- 
action.” 

I am  at  this  moment  returned  from  my  Vengolf, 
after  having  declared  the  necessity  of  my  absence 
for  some  time,  leaving  the  term,  however,  indefi- 
nite ; so  that  in  this  instance,  I can  be  governed 
by  my  inclination  and  convenience,  without  any 

♦ The  mention  of  this  oath  recalls  to  my  mind  an 
anecdote  of  the  bard  Carolan,  as  related  by  Mr.  Walker.  ^ 
in  his  itiimitable  Memoir  of  the  Irish  Bards.  “ He(Caro- 
lan)  went  once  on  a pilgrimage  to  St.  Patrick’s  Purgatory, 
a cave  in  an  island  in  Lough  Dergh,  (county  of  Donegal) 
of  which  more  wonders  are  told  than  even  the  Cave  of 
Triphonins.  On  his  return  to  shore,  lie  found  several 
pilgrims  waiting  the  arrival  of  the  boat,  which  had  con- 
veyed him  to  the  object  of  his  devotion.  In  assisting 
Home  of  those  devout  travellers  to  get  on  board,  he 
chanced  to  take  a lady’s  hand,  and  instantly  exclaimed 
‘ dar  lamh  mo  Chardais  Criost,  [i.  e.  by  the  hand  of  my 
gossip]  this  is  the  hand  of  Bridget  Cruise.'  His  sense  ot 
feeling  did  not  deceive  him — it  was  the  hand  of  her  who 
he  once  adored.” 


T-^E  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


201 


violation  of  promise  The  good  old  Prince  look- 
ed as  much  amazed  at  my  determination,  as 
though  he  expected  I were  never  to  depart;  and  I 
really  believe,  in  the  old  fashioned  hospitality  of 
his  Irish  heart,  he  would  be  better  satisfied  I 
never  should.  He  said  many  kind  and  cordial 
things  in  his  own  curious  way  ; and  concluded 
by  pressing  my  speedy  return,  and  declaring  that 
my  presence  had  created  a little  jubilee  among 
them. 

The  priest  was  absent ; and  Glorvina,  who  sat 
at  her  little  wheel  by  her  father’s  side,  snapped 
her  thread,  and  drooped  her  .head  close  to  her 
work,  until  I casually  observed,  that  I had  alrea- 
dy passed  above  three  weeks  at  the  castle — then 
she  shook  back  the  golden  tresses  from  her  brow, 
and  raised  her  eyes  to  mine  with  a look  that 
seemed  to  say,  “ can  that  be  possible  !”  Not  even 
by  a glance  did  I reply  to  the  flattering  question; 
but  I felt  it  not  the  less. 

When  we  arose  to  retire  to  our  respective 
apartments,  and  I mentioned  that  I should  be  off 
at  dawn,  the  Prince  shook  me  cordially  by  the 
hand,  and  bid  me  farewell  with  an  almost  paternal 
kindness. 

Glorvina,  on  whose  arm  he  was  leaning,  did 
not  follow  his  example — she  simply  wished  me 
“ a pleasant  journey.” 

“ But  where,”  said  the  Prince,  “ do  you  sojourn 
to  ?” 

To  the  town  of  Bally said  I,  “ which 


202 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


has  been  hitherto  my  head  quarters,  and  where  I 
have  left  my  clothes,  books,  and  drawing  utensils. 
J have  also  some  friends  in  the  neighbourhood, 
procured  me  by  letters  of  introduction  with  which 
1 was  furnished  in  England.” 

You  know  that  a great  part  of  this  neighbour- 
hood is  my  father’s  property,  and  once  belonged 
to  the  ancestors  of  the  Prince.  He  changed 
colour  as  1 spoke,  and  hurried  on  in  silence. 

Adieu!  the  castle  clock  strikes  twelve!  What 
creatures  we  are  ! when  the  tinkling  of  a bit  of 
metal  can  affect  our  spirits.  Mine,  however, 
(though  why,  I know  not,)  were  prepared  for  the 
reception  of  sombre  images.  'Fhis  night  may 
be,  in  all  human  probability,  the  last  I shall  sleep 
in  the  castle  of  Inismore  ; and  what  then — it 
were  perhaps  as  well  I had  never  entered  it.  A 
generous  mind  can  never  reconcile  itself  to  the 
practices  of  deception ; yet  to  prejudices  so  in- 
veterate, I had  nothing  but  deception  to  oppose. 
And  yet,  when  in  some  happy  moment  of  parental 
favour,  when  all  my  past  sins  are  forgotten,  and 
my  present  state  of  regeneration  only  remember- 
ed— I shall  find  courage  to  disclose  my  romantic 
adventure  to  my  father,  and  through  the  medium 
of  that  strong  partiality  the  son  has  awakened  in 
the  heart  of  the  Prince,  unite  in  bonds  of  friend- 
ship these  two  worthy  men  but  unknown  enemies 
— then  I shall  triumph  in  my  impositions,  and, 
for  the  first  time,  adopt  the  maxim,  that  good  con- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


203 


sequences  may  be  effected  by  means  not  strictly 
conformable  to  the  rigid  laws  of  truth. 

I have  just  been  at  my  window,  and  never  be- 
held so  gloomy  a night — not  a star  twinkles 
through  the  massy  clouds  that  are  driven  impetu- 
ously along  by  the  sudden  gusts  of  a rising  storm 
— not  a ray  of  light  partially  dissipates  the  pro- 
found obscurity,  save  what  falls  on  a fragment  of 
an  opposite  tower,  and  seems  to  issue  from  the 
window  of  a closet  which  joins  the  apartment  of 
Glorvina.  She  has  not  yet  then  retired  to  rest, 
and  yet  ’tis  unusual  for  her  to  sit  up  so  late.  For 
_ I have  often  watched  that  little  casement — its 
position  exactly  corresponds  with  the  angle 
of  the  castle  where  I am  lodged. 

If  I should  have  any  share  in  the  vigils  of 
Glorvina ! ! ! 

I know  not  whether  to  be  most  gratified  or  hurt 
at  the  manner  in  which  she  took  leave  of  me. 
Was  it  indifference,  or  resentment,  that  marked 
her  manner  ? She  certainly  was  surprised,  and 
her  surprise  was  not  of  the  most  pleasing  nature 
— for  where  was  the  magic  smile,  the  sentient 
blush,  that  ever  ushers  in  and  betrays  every  emo- 
tion of  her  ardent  soul ! Sweet  being ! w’’hatever 
m'ay  be  the  sentiments  which  the  departure  of 
the  supposed  unfortunate  wanderer  awakens  in 
thy  bosom,  may  that  bosom  still  continue  the  hal- 
lowed asylum  of  the  dove  of  peace!  May  the 
pure  heart  it  enshrines  still  throb  to  the  best  im- 
pulses of  the  happiest,  nature,  and  beat  with  th< 


204 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


soft  palpitation  of  innocent  pleasure  and  guileless 
transport,  veiled  from  the  rude  intercourse  of  that 
world  to  which  thy  elevated  and  sublime  nature 
IS  so  eminently  superior  ; long  amidst  the  shade 
of  the  venerable  ruins  of  thy  forefathers  mayest 
thou  bloom  and  flourish  in  undisturbed  felicity ! 
the  ministering  angel  of  thy  poor  compatriots, 
who  look  up  to  thee  for  example  and  support — •. 
thy  country’s  muse,  and  the  bright  model  of  the 
genuine  character  of  her  daughters,  when  unvi- 
tiated by  erroneous  education  and  by  those  fatal 
prejudices  which  lead  them  to  seek  in  foreign  re- 
finements for  those  talents,  those  graces,  those  vir- 
tues which  are  no  where  to  be  found  more  flour- 
ishing^ more  attractive  than  in  their  native  land. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XV. 


TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

M House, 

It  certainly  requires  less  nicety  of  perception 
to  distinguish  differences  in  kind  than  differences 
in  degree  ; but  though  my  present,  like  my  past 
situation,  is  solitudinous  in  the  extreme,  it  demands 
no  very  great  discernment  to  discover  that  my  late 
life  was  a life  of  solitude — my  .present,  of  deso- 
lation. 

I n the  castle  of  Inismore  I was  estranged  from 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


2oa 

the  world  , here  I am  estranged  from  m’  self.  Yet 
BO  much  more  sequestered  did  that  sweet  inter- 
esting spot  appear  to  me,  that  I felt,  on  arriving 
at  this  vast  and  solitary  place  (after  having  pass- 
ed by  a few  gentlemen’s  seats,  and  caught  a dis- 
tant view  of  the  little  town  of  Bally — ,)  as  though 
I were  returning  to  the  world — but  felt  as  if  that 
world  had  no  longer  any  attraction  for  me. 

What  a dream  was  the  last  three  weeks  of  my 
life  ! But  it  was  a dream  from  which  I wished 
not  to  be  awakened.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I had 
lived  in  an  age  of  primeval  virtue.  My  senses  at 
rest,  my  passions  soothed  to  philosophic  repose, 
my  prejudices  vanquished,  all  the  powers  of  my 
mind  gently  breathed  into  motion,  yet  calm  and 
unagitated — all  the  faculties  of  my  taste  called 
into  exertion,  yet  unsated  even  by  boundless  grati- 
fication.— My  fancy  restored  to  its  pristine 
warmth,  my  heart  to  its  native  sensibility.  The 
past  given  to  oblivion,  the  future  unanticipated, 
and  the  present  enjoyed  with  the  full  conscious- 
ness of  its  pleasurable  existence.  Wearied,  ex- 
hausted, satiated  by  a boundless  indulgence  of 
hackneyed  pleasures,  hackneyed  occupations, 
hackneyed  pursuits,  at  a moment  when  I was 
sinking  beneath  the  lethargic  influence  of  apathy, 
or  hovering  on  the  brink  of  despair,  a new  light 
broke  upon  my  clouded  mind,  and  discovered  to  my 
inquiring  heart,  something  yei  worth  living  for. 
Wiiat  that  mystic  something  is,  I can.  scarce!) 

18 


206 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


yet  define  myself;  but  a magic  spell  now  irresist- 
ibly binds  m-e  to  that  life  which  but  lately, 

“ Like  a foul  and  ugly  witch,  did  limp 
So  tediously  away.” 

The  reserved  tints  of  a gray  dawn  had  not  yet 
received  the  illuminating  beams  of  the  east,  when 
I departed  from  the  castle  of  Inismore.  None  of 
the  family  were  risen,  but  the  hind  who  prepared 
my  rosinante^  and  the  nurse,  who  made  my 
breakfast. 

I rode  twice  round  that  wing  of  the  castle 
where  Glorvina  sleeps : the  curtain  of  her  bed- 
room casement  was  closely  drawn  : but  as  I pass- 
ed by  it  a second  time,  I thought  I perceived  a 
shadowy  form  at  the  window  of  the  adjoining  case- 
ment. As  I approached  it  seemed  to  retreat ; the 
whole,  however,  might  have  only  been  the  vision 
of  my  wishes — my  wishes  ! ! But  this  girl  piques 
me  into  something  of  interest  for  her.  - 

About  three  miles  from  the  castle,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  a wild  and  desolate  heath,  I met  the  good 
Father  Director  of  Inismore.  He  appeared  quite 
amazed  at  the  rencontre.  He  expressed  great 
regret  at  my  absence  from  the  castle,  insisting 
that  he  should  accompany  me  a mile  or  two  of 
my  journey,  though  he  was  only  then  returning 
after  having  passed  the  night  in  ministering  tem- 
poral as  well  as  spiritual  comfort  to  an  unfortu- 
nate family  at  some  miles  distance. 

“ These  poor  people,’’  said  he  “ were  tenant? 
f)n  the  skirts  of  Lord  M’s  estate,  who,  though  by 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


207 


all  accounts  a most  excellent  and  benevolent  man, 
employs  a steward  of  a very  opposite  character. 
This  unworthy  delegate  having  considerably  rais- 
ed the  rent  on  a little  farm  held  by  these  unfortu- 
nate people,  they  soon  became  deeply  in  arrears, 
were  ejected,  and  obliged  to  take  shelter  in  an 
almost  roofless  hut,  where  the  inclemency  of  the 
season,  and  the  hardships  they  endured,  brought 
on  disorders  by  which  the  mother  and  two  chil 
dren  are  now  nearly  reduced  to  the  point  of 
death ; and  yesterday,  in  their  last  extremity,  they 
sent  for  me.” 

While  I commiserated  the  sufferings  of  these 
unfortunates  (and  cursed  the  villain  Clendinning 
in  my  heart,)  I could  not  avoid  adverting  to  the 
humanity  of  this  benevolent  priest. 

“ These  offices  of  true  charity,  which  you  so 
frequently  perform,”  said  I,  are  purely  the  re- 
sult of  your  benevolence,  rather  than  a mere  ob- 
servance of  your  duty.” 

“ It  is  true,”  he  replied,  I have  no  parish  ; 
but  the  incumbent  of  that  in  which  these  poor 
people  reside  is  so  old  and  infirm,  as  to  be  totally 
incapacitated  from  performing  such  duties  of  his  , 
calling  as  require  the  least  exertion.  The  duty  of 
one  who  professes  himself  the  minister  of  reli- 
gion, whose  essence  is  charity,  should  not  be 
confined  within  the  narrow  limitation  of  pre- 
scribed. rules  ; and  I should  consider  myself  as 
unworthy  of  the  sacred  habit  I wear,  should  my  * 


208 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRl. 


exertions  be  confined  to  the  suggestions  of  my 
interes'  and  my  duty  only. 

“ The  faith  of  the  lower  order  of  Catholics 
here  in  their  priest,”  he  continued,  “ is  astonish- 
ing : even  his  presence  they  conceive  is  an  anti- 
dote to  every  evil. — When  he  appears  at  the  door 
of  their  huts,  and  blends  his  cordial  salutation 
with  a blessing,  the  spirit  of  consolation  seems  to 
hover  at  its  threshhold — pain  is  alleviated,  sorrow 
soothed;  and  hope,  rising  from  the  bosom  of 
strengthening  faith,  triumphs  over  the  ruins  of 
despair.  To  the  wicked  he  prescribes  penitence 
and  confession,  and  the  sinner  is  forgiven ; to  the 
wretched  he  asserts,  that  suffering  here,  is  the 
purchase  of  felicity  hereafter,  and  he  is  resign- 
ed ; and  to  the  sick  he  gives  a consecrated  charm, 
and  by  the  force  of  faith  and  imagination  he  is 
made  well. — Guess  then  the  influence  which  this 
order  of  men  hold  over  the  aggregate  of  the  peo- 
ple ; for  while  the  Irish  peasant,  degraded,  ne« 
glected,  despise_d,*  vainly  seeks  one  beam  of  con 
ciliation  in  the  eye  of  overbearing  superiority ; 
condescension,  familiarity  and  kindness  win  his 
gratitude  to  him  whose  spiritual  elevation  is  in 
his  mind  above  all  temporal  rank.” 

“You  shed,”  said  I,  “ a patriarchal  interest  over 
the  character  of  priesthood  among  you  here ; 
which  gives  that  order  to  my  view  in  a very  dif- 

, « The  common  people  of  Ireland  have  no  rank  in  socle* 

ty — they  may  he  treated  with  contempt,  and  consequently 
are  with  inhumanity.” — An  Enquiry  into  the  Causes,  &c. 


THE  ^ILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


209 


.erenl  aspect  from  that  in  which  I liave  hitherto 
considered  it.  To  what  an  excellent  purpose 
might  this  boundless  influence  be  turned !” 

“ If,”  interrupted  he,  “ priests  were  not  men — 
men  too,  generally  speaking,  without  education^ 
(which  is  in  fact,  character,  principle,  everything,) 
except  such  as  tends  rather  to  narrow  than  en- 
large the  mind — men  in  a certain  degree  shut  out 
from  society,  except  of  the  lower  class  ; and  men 
who,  from  their  very  mode  of  existence  (which 
forces  them  to  depend  on  the.  eleemosynary  con- 
tributions of  their  flock,)  must  eventually  in  many 
instances  imbibe  a degradation  of  spirit  which  is 
certainly  not  the  parent  of  the  liberal  virtues.” 

“ Good  God!”  said  I,  surprised,  “and  this 
from  one  of  their  own  order !” 

“ These  are  sentiments  I never  should  have 
hazarded,”  returned  the  priest,  “ could  I not  have 
opposed  to  those  natural  conclusions,  drawn  from 
well  known  facts,  innumerable  instances  of  be- 
nevolence, piety,  and  learning  among  the  order. 
While  to  the  whole  body  let  it  be  allowed  as 
priests^  whatever  may  be  their  failings  as  men, 
that  the  activity  of  their  lives,*  the  punctilious 
discharge  of  their  duty,  and  their  ever  ready  at- 

* A Roman  Catholic  clergyman  is  the  minister  of  a very 
ritual  religion  ; and  by  his  profession,  subject  to  many  re- 
straints; his  life  is  full  of  strict  observances,  and  his  duties 
are  of  a laborious  nature  towards  himself,  and  of  the  high 
est  possible  trust  towards  others.’^ — Letter  on  the  Penal 
Laws  against  the  Irish  Catholics,  by  the  Right  Honourably 
Edmund  Burke. 

O 


18* 


&10 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


temion  to  their  flock,  under  every  moral  and  even 
under  every  physical  suffering,  renders  them  de- 
serving of  that  reverence  and  affection  which, 
above  the  ministers  of  any  other  religion,  they 
receive  from  those  over  whom  they  are  placed.” 

“ And  which,”  said  I,  if  opposed  to  the  lan- 
guid performance  of  periodical  duties,  neglect  of 
the  moral  functions  of  their  calling,  and  the  habit- 
ual indolence  of  the  ministers  of  other  sects,  they 
may  certainly  be  deemed  zealots  in  the  cause 
of  the  faith  they  profess,  and  the  charity  they 
inculcate  !” 

While  I spoke,  a young  lad,  almost  in  a state 
of  nudity,  approached  us  ; yet  in  the  crown  of 
his  leafless  hat  were  stuck  a few  pens,  and  over 
his  shoulder  hung  a leathern  satchel  full  of  books. 

“ This  is  an  apposite  rencontre,”  said  the 
priest — “ behold  the  first  stage  of  one  class  of 
Catholic  priesthood  among  us  ; a class  however 
no  longer  very  prevalent.” 

The  boy  approached,  and,  to  my  amazement, 
addressed  us  in  Latin,  begging  with  all  the  ve- 
hement eloquence  of  an  Irish  mendicant,  for  some 
money  to  buy  ink  and  paper.  We  gave  him  a 
trifle,  and  the  priest  desired  him  to  go  on  to  the 
castle,  where  he  would  get  his  breakfast,  and  that 
on  his  return  he  would  give  him  some  books  into 
the  bargain. 

The  boy,  who  solicited  in  Latin,  expressed  his 
gratitude  in  Irish  ; and  we  trotted  on. 

‘‘  Such,”  said  Father  John,  “ f(»rmerly  was  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


21% 


frequent  origin  of  our  Roman  Catholic  priests 
This  is  a character  unknown  to  you  in  England, 
and  is  called  here  ‘ a poor  scholar.^  If  a boy  is 
too  indolent  to  work  and  his  parents  too  poor  to 
support  him,  or,  which  is  more  frequently  the 
case,  if  he  discovers  some  natural  talents,  or,  as 
they  call  it,  takes  to  his  learning,  and  that  they 
have  not  the  means  to  forward  his  improvement, 
he  then  becomes  by  profession  a poor  scholar,  and 
continues  to  receive  both  his  mental  and  bodily 
food  at  the  expense  of  the  community  at  large. 

“ With  a leathern  satchel  on  his  back,  contain- 
ing his  portable  library,  he  sometimes  travels  not 
only  through  his  own  province,  but  frequently 
over  the  greater  part  of  the  kingdom.*  No  door 
is  shut  against  the  poor  scholar,  who,  it  is  sup- 
posed, at  a future  day  may  be  invested  with  the 

* It  hag  been  justly  said,  that,  nature  is  invariable  in 
her  operations ; and  that  the  principles  of  a polished  peo- 
ple will  influence  even  their  latest  posterity.”  And  the 
ancient  state  of  letters  in  Ireland,  may  be  traced  in  the  love 
of  learning  and  talent  even  still  existing  among  the  inferior 
class  of  the  Irish  to  this  day.  On  this  point  it  is  observed 
by  Mr.  Smith,  in  his  History  of  Kerry,  ‘‘that  it  is  well 
known  that  classical  reading  extends  itself  even  to  a fault, 
among  the  lower  and  poorer  kind  of  people  in  this  coun- 
try, [Munster,]  many  of  whom  have  greater  knowledge  in 
this  way  than  some  of  the  better  sort  in  other  places.’’  He 
elsewhere  observes,  that  Greek  is  taught  in  the  mountain- 
ous parts  of  the  province.  And  Mr.  O’Halloran  asserts, 
that  classical  reading  has  most  adherents  in  those  retired 
parts  of  the  kingdom  where  strangers  had  least  access,  and 
thaf  as  good  classical  scholars  w'ere  found  in  most  part* 
•f  Connaught,  as  in  any  part  of  Europe. 


%12 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


ftpostolic  key  of  Heaven.  ^Tho  priest  or  school* 
master  of  every  parish  through  which  he  passes, 
receives  him  for  a few  days  into  his  barefooted 
seminary,  and  teaches  him  bad  Latin  and  worse 
English ; while  the  most  opulent  of  his  school- 
fellows eagerly  seize  on  the  young  peripatetic 
philosopher  and  provide  him  with  maintenance 
and  lodging;  and  if  he  is  a boy  of  talent  or  humour 
(a  gift  always  prized  by  the  naturally  laughter- 
loving  Milesians)  they  will  struggle  for  the  plea- 
sure of  his  society. 

“ Having  thus  had  the  seeds  of  dependence 
sown  irradically  in  his  mind,  and  furnished  his 
perisatetic  studies,  he  returns  to  his  native  home, 
and  with  an  empty  satchel  to  his  back,  goes  about 
raising  contributions  on  the  pious  charity  of  his 
poor  compatriots  : each  contributes  some  neces- 
sary article  of  dress,  and  assists  to  fill  a little  purse, 
until  completely  equipped ; and,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  covered  from  head  to  foot,  the  divine 
embryo  sets  out  for  some  sea-port,  where  he  em- 
barks for  the  corteges  of  Douay  or  St.  Omer’s  ; 
and  having  begged  himself,  in  forma  pauperis, 
through  all  the  necessary  rules  and  discipline  of 
the  seminary,  he  returns  to  his  own  country,  and 
becomes  the  minister  of  salvation  to  those  whose 
generous  contributions  enable  him  to  assume  the 
sacred  profession.* 

♦ The  French  Revolution,  and  the  fo:3ndation  of  the 
Catholic  college  at  Maynooth,  has  put  a stop  to  these  pious 
emigrations. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  51RL. 


213 


Such  is  the  man  by  whom  the  minds  opinions, 
And  even  actions  of  the  people  are  often  influ- 
enced ; and,  if  man  is  but  a creature  of  education 
and  habit,  I leave  you  to  draw  the  inference. 
But  this  is  but  one  class  of  priesthood,  and  its 
description  rather  applicable  to  twenty  or  thirty 
years  back  than  to  the  present  day.  The  other 
two  may  be  divided  into  the  sons  of  tradesmen 
and  farmers,  and  the  younger  sons  of  Catholic 
gentry. 

“ Of  the  latter  order  am  I ; and  the  interest  of 
my  friends  on  my  return  from  the  continent  pro- 
cured me  what  was  deemed  the  best  parish  in  the 
diocese.  But  the  good  and  the  evil  attendant  on 
every  situation  in  life,  is  rather  to  be  estimated 
by  the  feelings  and  sensibility  of  the  objects 
whom  they  affect,  than  by  their  own  intrinsic  na-- 
ture.  It  was  in  vain  I endeavoured  to  accommodate 
my  mind  to  the  mode  of  life  into  which  I had 
been  forced  by  my  friends.  It  was  in  vain  I en- 
deavoured to  assimilate  my  spirit  to  that  species 
of  exertion  necessary  to  be  made  for  my  livelihood. 

“ To  owe  my  subsistence  to  the  precarious 
generosity  of  those  wretches,  whose  every  gift 
to  me  must  be  the  result  of  a sensible  deprivation 
to  themselves  ; be  obliged  to  extort  (even  from  the 
altar  where  I presided  as  the  minister  of  the^Most 
High)  the  trivial  contributions  for  my  support,  in 
a language  which,  however  appropiiate  to  the 
understandings  of  my  auditors,  sunk  me  in  my 
own  esteem  to  the  last  degree  of  self-degrada 


214 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


tiou ; or  to  receive  from  the  religious  affection  of 
my  flock  such  voluntary  benefactions  as,  under 
the  pressure  of  scarcity  and  want,  their  rigid 
economy  to  themselves  enabled  them  to  make  to 
the  pastor  whom  they  revered.*  In  a word,  after 
three  years  - miserable  dependence  on  those  for 
whose  poverty  and  wretchedness  my  heart  bled, 
I threw  up  my  situation,  and  became  chaplain  to 
the  Prince  of  Inismore,  on  a stipend  sufficient  for 
my  little  wants,  and  have  lived  with  him  for  thir- 
ty years,  on  such  terms  as  you  have  witnessed 
for  these  three  weeks  back. 

“ While  my  heart  felt  compassion,  my  tender- 
est  sympathy  is  given  to  those  of  my  brethren 
who  are  by  birth  and  education  divested  of  that 
scale  of  thought,  and  obtuseness  of  feeling,  which 
distinguish  those  of  the  order,  who,  reared  from 
the  lowest  origin  upon  principles  the  most  ser- 
vilizing,  are  callous  to  the  innumerable  humili- 
ations of  their  dependent  state ” 

Here  an  old  man  mounted  on  a mule,  rode  up 
to  the  priest,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes  informed 

* “ Are  these  men  supposed  to  have  no  sense  of  justice 
that,  in  addition  to  the  burthen  of  supporting  their  own 
establishment  exclusively,  they  should  be  called  on  to  pay 
ours;  that,  where  they  pay  sixpence  to  their  own  priest, 
they  should  pay  a pound  to  our  clergymen;  that,  vvliile 
they  can  scarce  afford  their  own  a horse,  they  should  place 
ours  in  his  carriage;  and  that  when  they  cannot  build  a 
mass-house  to  cover  their  multitudes,  they  should  be  forced 
to  contribute  to  build  sumptuous  churches  for  half  a dozen 
Protestants  to  pray  under  a shed  !’’ — Inquiry  into  thf 
Causes  of  Popular  Discontents,  &c.,  page  27, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


215 


him  that  he  was  just  going  to  the  castle  to  hum- 
bly entreat  his  reverence  would  visit  a poor  child 
of  his,  who  had  been  looked  on  with  “ an  evil 
eye^'‘  a few  days  back,*  and  who  had  ever  since  * 
been  pining  away. 

“ It  was  our  misfortune,’’  said  he,  “ never  to 
have  tied  a gospel  about  her  neck,  as  we  did  round 
the  other  children’s,  or  this  heavy  sonow  would 
never  have  befallen  us.  But  we  know  if  your 
reverence  would  only  be  pleased  to  say  a prayer 
over  her,  all  would  go  well  enough  !” 

The  priest  gave  me  a significant  look,  and  > 
diaking  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  pressing 
my  speedy  return  to  Inismore,  rode  off  with  the 
suppliant. 

Thus,  in  his  duty,  “ prompt  at  every  call,”  after 
having  passed  the  night  in  acts  of  religious  benev- 
olence, his  humanity  willingly  obeyed  the  voice 
of  superstitious  prejudice  which  endowed  him 
with  the  fancied  power  of  alleviating  fancied 
evils'. 

As  I rode  along,  reflecting  on  the  wondrous 
influence  of  superstition,  and  the  nature  of  its  ef- 

* It  is  supposed  among  the  lower  order  of  Irish,  as 
among  the  Greeks,  that  some  people  are  born  with  an  evil 
eye,  which  injures  every  object  on  which  it  falls,  and  they 
will  frequently  go  many  miles  out  of  their  direct  road,  ra- 
ther than  pass  by  the  house  of  one  who  has  “ an  evil  eye.’’ 
To  frustrate  its  effects,  the  priest  hangs  a consecrated 
charm  around  the  necks  of  their  children,  called  “a  gos- 
pel;” and  the  fears  of  the  parents  are  quieted  by  thei/ 
faith. 


216 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


fects,  I could  not  help  dwelling  on  the  strong 
analogy  which  in  so  many  instances  appears  be- 
tween the  vulgar  errors  of  this  country  and  that 
of  the  ancient  as  well  as  modern  Greeks. 

St.  Chrysostom,*  relating  the  bigotry  of  his  own 
times,  particularly  mentions  the  superstitious  hor- 
ror which  the  Greeks  entertained  against  “ the 
evil  eyeP  And  an  elegant  modern  traveller  as- 
sures us,  that  even  in  the  present  day  they  “ com- 
bine cloves  of  garlic,  talismans,  and  other  charms, 
which  they  hang  about  the  necks  of  their  in- 
fants, with  the  same  intention  of  keeping  away 
the  evil  eyeP 

Adieu. 

H.  M. 

♦ “ Some  write  on  the  hand  the  names  of  several  rivers, 
while  others  make  use  of  ashes,  tallow,  salt  for  the  lik« 
purposes — all  this  being  to  divert  the  * evil  eye.^  ” 


sjip  or  VOL.  1. 


THE 


WILD  IRISH  GIRL 

A NATIONAL  TALE. 

BY  LADY  MORGAN, 

AUTnOH  OF  ST.  CLAIR,  THE  NOVICE  OF  ST.  DOJtTNIC,  BSC. 


“Qucsta  gente  benche  raostra  selvagea 
E pur  gli  monte  la  contrada  accierba 
Nond'.meuo  I’e  dolce  ad  cui  I’asaagia.” 

‘This  race  of  men,  though  savage  they  may  seem, 

The  country,  too,  with  many  a mountain  rough, 

Yet  are  they  sweet  to  him  who  tries  and  tastes  them.” 
UbertVs  Travels  thro*  Ireland^  14<A 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES 

*NEW  YOEK  : 


P.  J.  KE  NED  Y, 
EXCELSIOR  CATHOLIC  rCBLISIimG  HOUSE, 

5 Bawlat  Stkeet. 


TfcR 


WILD  IRISH  GIRL, 


LETTER  XVI. 

'/ 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P.  ; - 

1 WISH  you  were  to  have  seen  the  look  with 
which  the  Avorthy  Mr.  Cleiidinning  met  me,  a® 
I rode  up  the  avenue  to  M house. 

To  put  an  end  at  once  to  his  impertinent  sur» 
rnises,  curiosity,  and  suspicion,  which  I evident- 
ly saw  lurking  in  his  keen  eye,  I made  a display 
of  my  fractured  arm,  which  I still  wore  in  a sling  ; 
and  naturally  enough  accounted  for  my  absence  ^ 
by  alleging  that  a fall  from  my  horse,  and  a frac- 
tured limb  had  obliged  me  to  accept  the  humane 
attentions  of  a gentleman,  near  whose  house  the 
accident  had  happened,  and  whose  guest  and  pa- 
tient I had  since  been.  Mr.  Cleiidinning  affected 
thi)  tone  of  regret  and  condolence,  with  some 
appropriate  suppositions  of  what  his  lord  would 
feel  when  he  learnt  the  unfortunate  circumstance. 

“In  a 'word,  Mr.  Clendinning,”  said  I,  “ I do 

VOL.  II.  !• 


6 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


not  choose  my  father’s  feelings  should  be  called 
in  question  cn  a matter  which  is  now  of  no  ill 
consequence  ; and  as  there  is  not  the  least  occa- 
sion to  render  hinr  unhappy  to  no  purpose,  I must 
insist  that  you  neither  write  nor  mention  the  cir- 
cumstance to  him  on  any  account.” 

Mr.  Clendinning  bowed  obedience,  and  I con- 
trived to  ratify  his  promise  by  certain  innendoes ; 
for,  as  he  is  well  aware  many  of  his  villanies 
have  reached  my  ear,  he  hates  and  fears  me  with 
'‘all  his  soul. 

My  first  inquiry  was  for  letters.  I found  two 
from  my  father,  and  one,  only  one,  from  you.  / 

My  father  writes  in  his  usual  style.  His  first 
is  merely  an  epistle  admonitory;  full  of  prudent 
axioms,  and  fatherly  solicitudes.  The  second 
informs  me  that  his  journey  to  Ireland  is  defer- 
red for  a month  or  six  weeks,  on  account  of  my 
i)rother’s  marriage  with  the  heiress  of  the  richest 
baidcer  in  the  city.  It  is  written  in  his  best  style, 
and  a brilliant  flow  of  spirit  pervades  every  line. 
In  the  plenitude  of  his  joy  all  my  sins  are  for- 
given ; he  even  talks  of  terminating  my  exile 
sooner  than  1 had  any  reason  to  suspect : and  he 
playfully  adds,  “ of  changing  my  banishment  into 
slavery” — “ knowing  from  experience  that  provi- 
ded my  shackles  ar^  woven  by  the  rosy  fingers 
of  beauty,  I can  wear  them  patiently  and  pleasura- 
bly enough.  In  short,”  he  adds,  “ I have  a con- 
nexion in  my  eye,  for  you,  not  less  brilliant  in 
point  ol’  fortune  than  .that  your  brother  has  made  ; 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  7 

and  whicli  will  enable  you  to  forswear  your 
Coke,  and  burn  your  Blackstone.” 

In  fact,  the  spirit  of  matrimonial  establishment 
seems  to  have  taken  such  complete  possession  of 
my  speculating  dad,  that  it  would  by  no  means 
surprise  me, though  he  were  on  the  point  of  sacri- 
ficing at  the  Hy menial  altar  himself.  You  know 
he  has  more  than  once,  in  a frolic,  passed  for  my 
elder  brother ; and  certainly  has  more  sensibility 
than  should  belong  to  forty-five.  Nor  should  I 
at  all  wonder  if  some  insinuating  coquette  should 
one  day  or  other  sentimentalize  him  into  a Pla- 
tonic passion,  which  would  terminate  in  the  old 
way.  I have,  however,  indulged  in  a little  triumph 
at  his  expense,  and  have  answered  him  in  a strain 
of  apathetic  content — that  habit  and  reason  have 
perfectly  reconciled  me  to  my  present  mode  of 
life,  which  leaves  me  without  a wish  to  change  it. 

Now  for  your  letter.  With  respect  to  the  ad- 
vice you  demand,  I have  only  to  repeat  the  opinion 
already  advanced  that  ******  gut 
with  respect  to  that  you  give  me — 

Go  bid  physicians  preach  our  veins  to  health, 

And  with  an  argument  new  set  a pulse. 

And  as  for  your  prediction — of  this  be  certain, 
that  I am  too  hackneyed  in  les  ajfaires  du  cceur, 
. ever  to  fall  in  love  beyond  all  redemption  with 
any  woman  in  existence.  And  even  this  little 
Irish  girl,  with  all  her  witcheries,  is  to  me  a sub- 
- ject  of  philosophical  analysis,  rather  than  ama- 
tory discussion. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


I • 

You  ask  me  if  I am  not  disorusted  with  hei 

i O 

brogue?  If  she  had  one,  I doubt  not  but  I should? 
but  the  accent  to  which  we  English  apply  that 
term,  is  here  generally  confined  to  the  lower  or* 
ders  of  society ; and  I certainly  believe,  that 
purer  and  more  grammatical  English  is  spoken  gen- 
erally through  Ireland  than  in  any  part  of  Eng- 
land whatever;  for  here  you  are  never  shocked 
by  the  barbarous  unintelligible  dialect  peculiar 
to  each  shire  in  Enofland.  As  to  Glorvina,  an 
aptitude  to  learn  languages  is,  you  know,  pecu- 
liar to  her  country;  but  in  her  it  is  a decided  and 
striking  talent : even  her  Italian  is,  “ la  lingua 
Toscana  neV  bocca  Rom  ana  and  her  English, 
grammatically  correct,  and  elegantly  pure,  is 
spoken  with  an  accent  that  could  never  denote 
her  country.  But  it  is  certain,  that  mthat  accent 
there  is  a species  of  langour  very  distinct  from 
the  brevity  of  ours.  Yet  (to  me  at  least)  it  only 
renders  the  lovely  speaker  more  interesting.  ‘ A 
simple  question  from  her  lip  seems  rather  tender- 
ly to  solicit,  than  abruptly  to  demand.  Her 
every  request  is  a soft  supplication  ; and  when 
she  stoops  to  entreaty,  there  is  in  her  voice  and 
manner  such  an  energy  of  supplication,  that  while 
she  places  your  power  to  grant  in  the  most  osten- 
sible light  to  yourself,  you  are  insensibly  van- 
quished by  that  soft  persuasion  whose  melting 
meekness  bestows  your  fancied  exaltation.  Her 
sweet-toned  mellifluous  voice,  is  always  sighed 
forth  rather  below  than  above  its  natural  pitch 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


9 


and  her  mellowed,  softened,  mode  of  articulation 
is  but  imperfectly  expressed  by  the  susaro  su- 
singando,  or  coaxy  murmurs  of  Italian  persuasion. 

To  Father  John,  who  is  the  first  and  most  gen- 
eral linguist!  ever  met,  she  stands  highly  indebt- 
ed ; but  to  Nature,,  and  her  own  ambition  to  ex- 
cel, still  more. 

I am  now  but  six  hours  in  this  solitary  and 
deserted  mansion,  where  I feel  as  though  I reign- 
ed the  very  king  of  desolation.  Let  me  hear 
from  you  by  return. 

Adieu 

H,  M 


LETTER  XVII. 

TO  J^p.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I FORGOT  to  mention  to  you  in  my  last,  that  to 
my  utter  joy  and  surprise,  our  premier  here  has 
been  recalled.  On  the  day  of  my  return,  he  re- 
ceived a letter  from  his  lord,  desiring  his  imme- 
diate attendance  in  London,  with  all  the  rents  he 
could  collect;  for  I suppose  the  necessary  ex- 
penditure requisite  for  my  brother’s  matrimonial 
establishment,  will  draw  pretty 
family  treasury. 

This  change  of  things  in  our  domestic  politics 
has  changed  all  my  plans  of  operation.  This 


largely  on  our 


10 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


arch  sp}'  being  removed,  obviates  the  necessitjr 
of  my  retreat  to  the  Lodge.  My  establishment 
here  consists  only  of  two  females,  who  scarcely 
speak  a word  of  English  ; an  old  gardener,  who 
possesses  not  one  entire  sense^  and  a groom,  who, 
having  nothing  to  do,  I shall  discharge  : so  that 
if  I should  find,  it  my  pleasure  to  return  and  re- 
main any  time  at  the  castle  of  Inismore,  I shall 
have  no  one  here  to  watch  my  actions,  or  report 
them  to  my  father. 

There  is  something  Boeotian  in  this  air.  I can 
neither  read,  write,  or  think.  Does  not  Locke 
assert,  that  the  soul  sometimes  dozes  ? I fre- 
quently think  I have  been  bit  by  a torpedo,  or  that 
I partake  in  some  degree  of  the  nature  of  the 
seven  sleepers,  and  suffer  a transient  suspension 
of  existence.  What  if  this  Glorvina  has  an  evil  eye, 
and  has  overlooked  me  ? The  witch  haunts  me, 
not  only  in  my  dreams,  but  when  I fancy  myself, 
at  least,  awake.  A thousand  times  I think  I hear 
the  tones  of  her  voice  and  harp.  Does  she  feel 
my  absence  at  the  accustomed  hour  of  tuition,  the 
fire-side  circle  in  the  Vengolf  the  twilight  con- 
versation, the  noontide  ramble? — Has  my  pre- 
sence become  a want  to  her  ? Am  I missed,  and 
missed  with  regret  ? It  is  scarcely  vanity  to  say, 
lam — 1 must  be.  -In  a life  of  so  much  sameness, 
the  most  trivial  incident,  the  most  inconsequent 
character  obtains  in  interest  in  a certain  degree. 

One  da}  I caught  her  weeping  over  a pet  robin, 
which  died  on  her  bosom.  She  smiled,  and  en- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


11 


deavoured  to  hide  her  tears.  “ This  is  very  silly 
I knoWj”  said  she,  “ but  one  must  feel  even  the 
loss  of  a bird  that  has  been  the  companion  of 
one's  solitude  1" 

To-day  I flung  down  my  book  in  downright 
deficiency  of  comprehension  to  understand  a word 
in  it,  though  it  was  a simple  case  in  the  Reports 

of ; and  so,  in  the  most  nouchalante  mood 

possible,  I mounted  my  rosinante^  and  throwing 
the  bridle  over  her  neck,  said,  “ please  thyself ; 
and  it  was  her  pious  pleasure  to  tread  on  conse- 
crated ground : in  short,  after  a ride  of  half  an 
hour,  I found  myself  within  a few  paces  of  the 
parish  mass-house,  and  recollected  that  it  was 
the  Sabbath  day  ; so  that  you  see  my  mare  re- 
proved me,  though  in  an  oblique  manner,  with 
little  less  gravity  than  the  ass  of  Balaam  did  his 
obstinate  rider. 

The  mass-house  was  of  the  same  order  of  ar- 
chitecture as  the  generality  of  Irish  cabins,  with 
no  other  visible  mark  to  ascertain  its  sacred  de- 
signation than  a stone  cross,  roughly  hewn,  over 
its  entrance.  I will  not  say  that  it  was  merely  a 
sentiment  of  piety  which  induced  me  to  enter  it; 
but  it  certainly  required,  at  first,  an  effort  of  ener- 
gy to  obtain  admittance,  as  for  several  yards  round 
this  simple  tabernacle  a crowd  of  devotees  were 
prostrated  on  the  earth,  praying  over  their  beads 
with  as  much  fervour  as  though  they  were  ofler- 


12 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


ing  up  their  orisins  in  the  golden-roofed  temple 
of  Solinian. 

When  I had  fastened  my  horse’s  bridle  to  a 
branch  of  a hawthorn,  I endeavoured  to  make 
my  way  through  the  pious  crowd,  who  all  arose 
the  moment  1 appeared — for  the  last  masSj  I learn- 
ed, was  over,  and  those  who  had  prayed  par  haz- 
ard^ without  hearing  a word  the  priest  said  with- 
in, departed.  While  1 pressed  my  way  into  the 
body  of  the  chapel,  it  was  so  crowded  that  with 
great  difficulty  I found  means  to  fix  myself  by  a 
large  triangular  stone  vessel  filled  with  holy 
water,  where  I fortunately  remained  (during  the 
sermon)  unnoticed. 

This  sermon  was  delivered  by  a little  old  men- 
dicant, in  the  Irish  language.  Beside  him  stood 
the  parish  priest  in  poiuificalibus,  and  with  as  much 
self-invested  digni|;y  as  the  dalai  lama  of  Little 
Thibet  could  assume  before  his  votarists.  When 
the  shrivelled  little  mendicant  had  harangued 
them  some  time  on  the  subject  of  Christian  chari- 
ty, for  so  his  countenance  and  action  indicated,  a 
general  secnta  sccAtlontm  concluded  his  discourse  ; 
and  while  he  meekly  retreated  a few  paces,  the 
priest  mounted  the  steps  of  the  little  altar  ; and 
after  preparing  his  lungs,  he  delivered  an  oration, 
to  which  it  would  be  impossible*to  do  any  justice. 
It  was  partly  in  Irish,  partly  in  English;  and  in- 
tended to  inculcate  the  necessity  of  contributing 
to  the  relief  of  the  mendicant  preacher,  if  they 
hoped  ;o  have  the  benefit  of  ids  prayers , ad* 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


V.- 


13 


dressing  each  of  his  flock  by  their  name  and  pro- 
fession, and  exposing  their  faults  and  extolling 
their  virtues,  according  to  the  nature  of  their  con- 
tributions While  the  friar,  who  stood  with  his 
face  to  the  wall,  was  with  all  human  diligence 
piously  turning  his  beads  to  two  accounts — with 
one  half  he  was  makinof  intercession  for  the  souls 
of  his  good  subscribers,  and  with  the  other  dili-  - 
gently  keeping  count  of  the  sum  total  of  their 
benefactions.  As  soon  as  I had  sent  in  mine, 
almost  stifled  with  heat,  I efTected  my  escape.- 
In  contrasting  this  parish  priest  with  the  chap- 
lain of  Inismore,  I could  not  help  exclaiming  with 
Epaminondas — “ It  is  the  man  who  must  give  dig- 
nity to  the  situation-; — not  the  situation  to  the 
man.”  Adieu. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XVIII. 


TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

% 

“ La  solitude  est  certainement  une  belle  chose, 
mais  il-y-a  plaisir  d’avoir  quelqu’une  qui  en  sache 
repondre,  a qui  on  puis  dire,  la  solitude  est  une 
belle  chose.” 

So  says  Monsieur  de  Balsac,  and  so  repeats 
my  heart  a thousand  times  a day.  In  short,  I am 
devoured  by  ennui^  by  apathy,  by  discontent  ’ 
What  should  I do  here  ? Nothing.  I have  spent 

VOL.  II.  2 


14 


THIS  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


but  four  days  here,  and  all  the  symploins  of  my 
old  disease  begin  to  re-appear : in  short,  like  other 
impatient  invalids,  I believed  my  cure  was  effect- 
ed when  my  disease  was  only  on  the  decline. 

I must  again  fly  to  sip  from  the  fountain  of  in- 
tellectual health  at  Inismore,  and  receive  the 
vivifying  drops  from  the  hand  of  the  presiding 
priestess,  or  stay  here,  and  fall  into  an  incurable 
atrophy  of  the  heart  and  mind ! 

Having  packed  up  a part  of  my  wardrobe,  and 
a few  books,  I sent  ,them  by  a young  rustic  to  the 
little  Villa  di  Marino^  and  in  about  an  hour  after  I 
followed  myself.  The  old  fisherman  and  his 
dame  seemed  absolutely  rejoiced  to  see  me,  and 
having  laid  my  valise  in  their  cabin,  and  dismiss- 
ed my  attendant,  I requested  they  would  permit 
their  son  to  carry  my  luggage  as  far  as  the  next 
cabaret,  where  I expected  a man  and  horse  to 
meet  me.  They  cheerfully  complied,  and  I pro- 
ceeded with  my  compagnon  de  voyage  to  a hut 
which  lies  half  way  between  the  fisherman’s  and 
the  castle.  This  hut  they  call  a Sheehin  House, 
and  is  somethihg  inferior  to  a certain  description 
of  Spanish  inn. 

Although  a little  board  informs  the  weary  tra- 
veller he  is  only  to  expect  “ good  dry  lodgings,” 
yet  the  landlord  contrives  to  let  you  know  in  an 
entre  nous  manner,  that  he  keeps  some  real  /n- 
ishone,  (or  spirits,  smuggled  from  a tract  of  coun- 
try so  called)  for  his  particular  friends.  So  having 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


15 


dismisse  d my  second  courier,  and  paid  for  the 
whiskey  I did  not  taste,  and  the  potatoes  I did 
not  eat,  I sent  my  host  forward,  mounted  on  a 
sorry  mule,  with  my  travelling  equipage,  to  the 
cabin  at  the  foot  of  the  drawbridge  ; and  by  these 
precautions  obviated  ail  possibility  of  discovery. 

As  I now  proceeded  on  my  route,  every  progres- 
sive step  awakened  some  new  emotion  ; while  my 
heart  was  agitated  by  those  unspeakable  little 
flutterings  which  are  alternately  excitell  and  gov- 
erned by  the  ardour  of  hope,  or  the  timidity  of 
fear.  And  shall  I,  or  shall  I not  be  welcome?” 
was  the  problem  which  engaged  my  thoughts 
during  the  rest  of  my  little  journey. 

As  I descended  the  mountain,  at  whose  base 
the  peninsula  of  Inismore  reposes,  I perceived  a 
form  at  some  distance,  whose  drapery  ne  hulam 
lineam^^)  seemed  light  as  the  breeze  on  which  it 
floated.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  the  figure  of 
Glorvina,  when  its  graces  are  called  forth  by  mo- 
tion. I instantly  alighted,  and  flew  to  meet  her. 
She  too  sprang  eagerly  forward.  We  were  al- 
most within  a few  paces  of  each  other,  when  she 
suddenly  turned  back  an-d  flew  down  the  hill  with 
the  bounding  step  of  a fawn.  This  would  have 
mortified  another — -I  was  charmed.  And  the 
jashful  consciousness  which  repelled  her  ad- 
vances, was  almost  as  grateful  to  my  heart  as  the 
warm  impulse  which  had  nearly  hurried  heic  intG 
tny  arms. — How  freshly  does  she  still  wear  the? 
first  gloss  of  nature  ! 


16 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


In  a few  minutes,  however,  I perceived  he? 
return,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  Father  Director, 
You  cannot  concei  c what  a festival  of  the  feel- 
ings my  few  days  absence  had  purchased  me. 
Oh!  he  knows  nothing  of  the  doctrine  of  enjoy- 
ment, who  does  not  purchase  his  pleasure  at  the 
expense  of  temporary  restraint.  The  good  priest, 
who  still  retains  something  of  the^  etiquette  of  his 
foreign  education,  embraced  me  a la  Francaise. 
Glorvina,  however,  who  rnalkereusement,  was  not 
reared  in  France,  only  offered  me  her  hand^ 
which  I had  not  the  courage  to  raise  to  my  un- 
worthy lip,  although  the  cordial  cead  mille  afalta 
of  her  country  revelled  in  her  shining  eyes,  and 
and  her  effulgent  countenance  was  lit  up  with  an 
unusual  blaze  of  animation.  ^ 

When  we  reached  the  castle  the  Prince  sent 
for  me  to  his  room,  and  told  me,  as  he  pressed 
my  hand,  that  “ his  heart  warmed  at  my  sight.” 
In  short,  my  return  seems  to  have  produced  a 
carnival  in  the  whole  family. 

You  who  know,  that  notwithstanding  my  late 
vitiated  life,  the  simple  pleasures  of  the  heart 
were  never  dead  to  mine,  may  guess  how  highly 
gratifying  to  my  feelings  is  this  interest,  which, 
independent  of  all  adventitious  circumstances  of 
rank  and  fortune,  I have  awakened  in  the  bosoms 
of  these  cordial,  inoenuous  beings. 

The  late  insufferable  reserve  of  Glorvina  has 
given  way  to  the  most  bewitching  (I  had  almost 
said  leader)  softness  of  manner. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  17 

At  I descended  from  paying  my  visit  to  the 
Prince,  I found  her  and  the  priest  in  the  hall. 

“ We  are  waiting  for  yon,”  said  she — “there 
is  no  resisting  the  fineness  of  the  evening.” 

C5  O 

And  as  we  left  the  door,  she  pointed  toward® 
the  west  and  added — 

See — 

**  The  weary  sun  hath  made  a golden  set,^ 

And  by  yon  ruddy  brightness  of  the  clouds, 

Gives  tokens  of  a goodly  day  to-morrow.” 

“O!  apropos,  Mr.  Mortimer,  you  are  returned 
in  most  excellent  time — for  to-morrow  is  ike  first 
of  May 

“ And  is  the  arrival  of  a guest,”  said  I,  “ on 
the  eve  of  tha4.  day  a favourable  omen  ?” 

“The  arrival  of  such  a guest,”  said  she,  “ must 
be  at  least  ominous  of  happiness.  But  the  first 
of  May  is  our  great  national  festival ; and  you,  who 
love  to  trace  modern  customs  to  ancient  origins, 
will  perhaps  feel  some  curiosity  and  interest  to 
behold  some  of  the  rites  of  our  heathen  supersti- 
tions still  lingering  among  our  present  cere- 
monies.” 

“ What  then,”  said  I,  “ have  you,  like  the 
Greeks,  the  festivals  of  the  spring  among  you  ?” 

“ It  is  certain,”  said  the  priest,  “ that  the  an- 
cient Irish  sacrificed  on  thej^r.^^  of  May  to  Beal, 
or  the  Sun;  and  that  day,  even  at  this  period, 
called  Beali^^ 

^ By  this  idolatry_  to  the  god  of  Light  and 
B 2* 


18 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Song,”  said  I,  one  would  almost  suppose  that 
Apollo  was  the  tutelar  deity  of  your  island  ” 

“ Why,”  returned  he,  ‘‘  Hecataeus  tells  us  that 
the  Hyperborean  Island  was  dedicated  to  Apollo, 
and  that  most  of  its  inhabitants  were  either  priests 
or  bards,  and  I suppose  you  are  not  ignorant  that 
we  claim  the  honour  of  being  those  happy  Hyper- 
boreans, which  were  believed  by  many  to  be  a 
fabulous  nation. 

“ And  if  the  peculiar  favour  of  the  god  of  Poe- 
try and  Song  may  be  esteemed  a sufficient  proof, 
it  is  certain  that  our  claims  are  not  weak.  For 
surely  no  nation  under  heaven  was  ever  more  en- 
thusiastically attached  to  poetry  and  music  than 
the  Irish.  Formerly  every  family  iiad  its  poet  or 
bard,  called  Filea  Crotaire  ; and,  indeed,  the  very 
language  itself,  seems  most  felicitously  adapted  to 
be  the  vehicle  of  poetic  images  ; for  its  energy, 
strength,  expression,  and  luxuriancy,  never  leave 
the  bard  at  a loss  for  apposite  terms  to  realize 
‘the  thick  coming  fancies  of  his  genius.’”* 

“ But,”  said  Glorvina,  “ the  first  of  May  was 
not  the  only  festival  held  sacred  by  the  Irish  to 
their  tutelar  deity  ; on  the  24th  of  June  they 
sacrificed  to  the  Sun,  to  propitiate  his  influence 
in  bringing  the  fruit  to  perfection ; and  to  this  day 

♦ Mr.  O’llallorau  informs  us,  that  in  a work  entitled 
‘‘  Uiraceaciit  naNeaigios,”  or  Poetic  Tales,  above  an  hun- 
dred different  species  of  Irish  verse  is  exliihited.  O’Molloy 
in  his  Irish  and  Latin  Grammar,  has  also  ^iven  rules  and 
specimens  of  onr  modes  of  versification,  which  may  bo  seen 
in  Dr.  Llmid’s  Achaeologia. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


19 


those  lingering  remains  of  heathen  rites  are  per* 
formed  with  sometliino-  of  their  ancient  forms. 

‘ Midsummer's  Night'  as  it  is  called,  is  with  ns  a 
night  of  universal  lumination — the  whole  country 
olazes:  from  the  summit  of  every  mountain,  every 
hill,  ascends  the  flame  of  the  bonfire,  while  the 
unconscious  perpetuators  of  the  heathen  ceremony 
dance  round  the  fire  in  circles,  or  holding  torches 
to  it  made  of  straw,  run  with  the  burning  brands 
wildly  through  the  country  with  all  the  gay  frenzy 
of  so  many  Bacchantes.  But  though  I adore  our 
aspiring  Beal  with  all  my  soul,  I worship  our 
popular  deity  Samhuin  with  all  my  heart — he  is 
the  god  of  the  heart’s  close  knitting  socialities, 
for  the  domesticating  month  of  November  is  sa- 
cred to  him.” 

“ And  on  its  eve,”  said  the  priest,  ‘‘  the  great 
lire  of  Samhuin  was  illuminated,  all  the  culinary 
fires  in  the  kinodom  bein^  first  extinguished,  as 
it  was  deemed  sacrilege  to  awaken  the  winter’s 
social  flame,  except  by  a spark  snatched  from  this 
sacred  fire,*  and  so  deep  rooted  are  the  customs 
of  our  forefathers  among  us,  that  the  present  Irish 
have  no  other  name  for  the  month  of  November 
than  Samhuin. 

“ Over  our  mythological  accounts  of  this  win-' 
ter  god,  an  almost  impenetrable  obscurity  seems 

* To  this  day,  tlie  inferior  Irish  look  upon  bonfires  as 
pacred  ; they  say  their  prayers  walking  round  them  ; the 
young  dream  upon  their  asiies,  and  the  old  steal  away  the 
fire  to  light  up  their  domestic  heartlis  with 


‘20  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

to  hover;  but  if  Sarnhuin  is  derived  from  Sam* 
tifhain^  as  it  is  generally  supposed,  the  term  liter- 
ally means  the  gathering  or  closing  of  summer  ; 
and,  in  fact,  on  the  eve  of  the  first  of  November 
we  make  our  offerings  round  the  domestic  altar, 
(the  fireside)  of  such,  fruits  as  the  lingering  sea- 
son affords,  besides  playing  a number  of  curious 
gambols,  and  performing  many  superstitious  cere- 
monies, in  which  our  young  folk  find  great  plea- 
sure, and  put  great  faith.” 

“ For  my  part,”  said  Glorvina,  “ I love  all  those 
old  ceremonies  which  force  us  to  be  periodically 
happy,  and  look  forward  with  no  little  impatience 
to  the  gay-hearted  pleasures  which  to-morrow 
will  bring  in  its  train.” 

The  little  post-boy  has  this  moment  tapped  at 
my  door  for  my  letter,  for  he  tells  me  he  sets  off 
before  dawn,  that  he  may  be  back  in  time  for  the 
sport.  It  is  now  past  eleven  o’clock,  but  I could 
no‘  resist  giving  you  this  little  scrap  of  Irish 
mythology,  before  I wished  you  good  night. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XIX. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

All  the  life-giving  spirit  of  spring,  mellowed 
by  the  genial  glow  of  summer,  shed  its  choicest 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


21 


treasures  on  the  smiling  hours  which  yesterday 
ushered  in  the  most  delightful  of  the  seasons. 

I arose  earlier  than  usual ; the  exility  of  my 
mind  would  not  suffer  me  to  rest,  and  the  scented 
air,  as  it  breathed  its  odours  through  my  open 
casement,  seduced  me  abroad.  1 walked  as  though 
I scarcely  touched  the  earth,  and  my  spirit  seem- 
ed to  ascend  like  the  lark  which  soared  over  mv 
head  to  hail  the  splendour  of  the  dewy  dawn. 
There  is  a fairy  vale  in  the  little  territories  of 
Inismore,  which  is  almost  a miniature  Tempe,  and 
which  is  indeed  the  only  spot  on  the  peninsula 
where  the  luxuriant  charms  of  the  most  bounteous 
nature  are  evidently  improved  by  taste  and  culti- 
vation. In  a word,  it  is  a spot  sacred  to  the  wan- 
derings of  Glorvina.  It  was  there  our  theological 
discourse  was  held  on  the  evening  of  my  return, 
and  thither  my  steps  were  now  with  an  irresisti- 
ble impulse  directed. 

I had  scarcely  entered  this  Eden,  when  the 
form  of  the  Eve,  to  whose  picturesque  fancy  it 
owes  so  many  charms  presented  itself.  She  was 
standing  at  a little  distance  en  profile — with  one 
hand  she  supported  a part  of  her  drapery  filled 
with  wild  flowers,  gathered  ere  the  sun  had  kiss- 
ed off  the  tears  which  night  had  shed  upon  their 
bosom;  with  the  other  she  seemed  carefully  to 
remove  some  branches  that  entwined  themselves 
through  the  sprays  of  a little  hawthorn  hedge 
richly  embossed  with  the  firstborn  blossoms  of 
May. 


22 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


As  I stole  towards  her,  I exclaimed,  as  Adam 
did  when  he  first  saw  Eve — 

<< Behold  her, 

Such  as  I saw  her  in  my  dream  adorned, 

With  all  that  earth  or  heaven  could  bestow." 

She  started  and  turned  round,  and  in  her  sur- 
prise let  fall  her  flowers,  yet  she  smiled,  and 
seemed  confused — but  pleasure,  pure,  animated, 
life-breathing  pleasure,  was  the  predominant  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance.  The  Deity  of 
Health  was  never  personified  in  more  glowing 
colours — her  eye’s  rich  blue,  her  cheek’s  crimson 
blush,  her  lip’s  dewy  freshness,  the  wanton  wild- 
ness of  her  golden  tresses,  the  delicious  langour 
that  mellowed  the  fire  of  her  beamy  glance — L 
gazed,  and  worshipped ! but  neither  apologized 
for  my  intrusion,  nor  had  the  politeness  to  collect 
her  scattered  flowers. 

“ If  Nature,”  said  I,  “ had  always  such  a priest- 
ess to  preside  at  her  altar,  who  would  worship  at 
the  shrine  of  Art  ?” 

“ I am  her  votarist  only,”  she  replied,  smiling, 
and,  pointing  to  a wild  rose  which  had  just  begun 
to  unfold  its  blushing  breast  amidst  the  snowy 
blossoms  of  the  hedge — added,  “ see  how  beauti- 
ful ! how  orient  its  hue  appears  through  the  pure 
crystal  of  the  morning  dew-drop  ! It  is  nearly 
three  weeks  since  I first  discovered  it  in  the  germ, 
since  when  I have  scr^jeried  it  from  the  noonday 
ardours,  and  the  evening’s  frost,  and  now  it  is  just 
bursting  into  perfoctio  i to  reward  my  cares.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


23 


At  these  words,  she  plucked  it  from  the  stera 
its  ciimson  head  drooped  with  tlie  weight  of  the 
gems  that  spaugled  it.  Glorvina  did  not  shake 
them  ofi’,  but  imbibed  the  liquid  fragrance  with 
her  lip;  then  held  the  flower  to  me  ! 

“ Am  I to  pledge  you  ?”  said  I. 

She  smiled,  and  I quafled  ofl*  the  fairy  nectar, 
which  still  trembled  on  the  leaves  her  lip  had 
consecrated. 

“ We  have  now,”  said  I,  “ both  drank  from  the 
same  cup  ; and  if  the  delicious  draught  which  Na- 
ture has  prepared  for  us,  circulates  with  mutual 
effect  through  our  veins — If” — I paused,  and  cast 
down  my  eyes.  The  hand  which  still  sustained 
the  rose,  and  was  still  clasped  in  mine,  seemed 
to  tremble  with  an  emotion  scarcely  inferior  to 
that  which  thrilled  through  my  whole  frame. 

After  a minute’s  pause — “Take  the  rose,”  said 
Glorvina,  endeavouring  to  extricate  the  precious 
hand  which  presented  it — “ Take  it ; it  is  the  first 
of  the  season  ! My  father  has  had  his  snow- 
drop— the  confessor  his  violet — and  it  is  but  just 
you  should  have  your  roseP 

At  that  moment  the  classical  remark  of  the 
priest  rushed,  I believe,  with  mutual  influence,  to 
both  our  hearts.  I,  at  least,  was  borne  away  by 
the  rapturous  feelings  of  the  moment,  and  knelt 
to  receive  the  offering  of  my  lovely  votarist. 

I kissed  the  ^weet  and  simple  tribute  with  pious 
ardour;  but  with  a devotion  more,  fervid,  kissed 
the  hand  that  presented  it  I would  not  have  ex- 


24  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

changed  that  moment  for  the  most  pleasurable  era 
of  my  existence.  The  blushing  radiance  that 
glowed  on  her  cheek,  sent  its  warm  suffusion 
even  to  the  hand  I had  violated  with  my  unhal- 
lowed lip  ; while  the  sparkling  fluid  of  her  eyes,' 
turned  on  mine  in  almost  dying  softness,  beamed 
on  the  latent  powers  of  my  once-chilled  heart, 
and  awakened  there  a thousand  delicious  trans- 
ports, a thousand  irifant  wishes  and  chaste  de- 
sires, of  which  I lately  thought  its  worn-out  feel- 
ings were  no  longer  susceptible. 

As  I arose,  I plucked  off  a small  branch  of 
that  myrtle  which  here  grows  wild,  and  which, 
like  my  rose,  was  dripping  in  dew,- and  putting  it 
into  the  hand  I still  held,  said, 

“ This  offering  is  indeeck-  less  beautiful,  less- 
fragrant,  than  that  which  you  have  made ; but  re- 
member, it  is  also  fragile — for  the  sentiment 

of  which  it  is  an  emblem,  carries  with  it  an  eter- 
nity of  duration.” 

Glorvina  took  it  in  silence  and  placed  it  in  her 
bosom  ; and  in  silence  we  walked  together  to- 
wards the  castle  ; while  our  eyes,  now  timidly 
turned  on  each  other,  now  suddenly  averted  (O, 
the  insidious  danger  of  the  abruptly  downcast 
eye!)  met  no  object  but  what  breathed  of  love, 

• whose  soul  seemed 

“ Sent  abroad, 

Warm  tliroiigli  the  vital  air,  and  on  the  heart 
Harmonious  seiz’d.’* 

The  morning  breeze  flushed  with  etherial  for- 

o 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


25 


voiir  ; the  luxury  of  tlie  landscape  through  which 
we  wandered,  the  sublimity  of  those  stupendous 
cliffs  which  seemed  to  shelter  two  hearts  from 
the  world,  to  which  their  profound  feelings  were 
unknown,  while 

Every  copse 

Deep  tangled,  but  irregular,  and  bush, 

Bending  with  dewy  moisture  o’er  tbe  head, 

Of  the  coy  clioiristers  that  lodged  within, 

Were  prodigal  of  harmony,” 

and  crowned  imagination’s  wildest  wish,  and 
realized  the  fancy’s  warmest  vision. 

“ Oh!  my  sweet  friend  !”  1 exclaimed,  “ since 
now  I feel  myself  entitled  thus  to  call  you — well 
indeed  might  your  nation  have  held  this  day  sa- 
cred ; and  while  the  heart,  which  now  throbs  with 
an  emotion  to  which  it  has  hitherto  been  a stran- 
ger, beats  with  the  pulse  of  life,  on  the  return  of 
this  day  will  it  make  its  offering  to  that  glorious 
orb,  to  whose  genial  nutritive  beams  this  precious 
rose  owes  its  existence.” 

”As  I spoke.  Father  John  suddenly  appeared. 
Vexed  as  I was  at  this  unseasonable  intrusion, 
yet  in  such  perfect  harmony  was  my  spirit  with 
the  whole  creation,  that,  in  the  true  hyperbola  of 
Irish  cordiality,  I wished  him  a thousand  happy 
returns  of  this  season  ! 

“ Spoken  like  a true-born  Irishman  !”  said  the 
priest,  laughing,  and  shaking  me  heartily  by  the 
hand — “ While  with  something  of  the  phlegm  of 
an  Englishman,  I wish  you  only  as  many  returns 

lOL.  II.  3 


26 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


of  as  shall  bring  health  and  felicity  in  theii 
train.” 

Then  looking  at  the  myrtle  which  reposed  on 
the  bosom  of  Glorvina,  and  the  rose  which  I so 
proudly  wore,  he  added — “ So,  I perceive  you 
have  both  been  sacrificing  to  Beal ; and  like  the 
priests  and  priestesses  of  this  country  in  former 
times,  are  adorned  with  the  flowers  of  the  season. 
For  you  must  know,  Mr.  Mortimer,  we  had  our 
Druidesses  as  well  as  our  Druids;  and  both,  like 
the  ministers  of  Grecian  mythology,  were  crown- 
ed with  flowers  at  the  time  of  sacrifice.” 

At  this  apposite  remark  of  the  good  priest,  I 
stole  a glance  at  my  lovely  priestess.  Hero,  at 
the  altar  of  the  deity  she  rivalled,  never  looked 
more  attractive  to  the  enamoured  Leander. 

We  had  now  come  within  a few  steps  of  the' 
portals  of  the  castle,  and  I observed  that  since  I 
passed  that  way,  the  path  and  entrance  were 
strewed  with  green  flags,  rushes,  and  wild  cro- 
cuses while  the  heavy  framework  of  the  door 
was  hung  with  garlands,  and  bunches  of  flowers, 
tastefully  displayed. 

“ This,  madam,”  said  I to  Glorvina,  “ :s  doubt- 
less the  result  of  your  happy  taste.” 

“ By  no  means,”  she  replied — “ this  is  a custom 
prevalent  among  the  peasantry  time  immemorial.” 

* Seeing  the  doors  of  the  Greeks  on  the  first  of  May, 
profusely  ornamented  with  flowers,  would  certainly  recall 
to  your  mind  the  many  descriptions  of  that  custom  which 
you  have  met  with  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  poets. — Tet- 
ters on  Greece,  by  Moniseur  Da  Guys,  vol  i.  p.  153, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  aiRL. 


27 


‘‘  And  most  proba-bly  was  brought  hither,”  said 
the  priest,  “ from  Greece  by  our  Phoenician  pro- 
genitors : for  we  learn  from  Athenaeus,  that  the 
young  Greeks  hung  garlands  on  the  doors  of  their 
favourite  mistresses  on  the  first  of  May.  Nor  in- 
deed does  the  Roman  Jloralia  differ  in  any  respect 
from  ours.” 

_ “ Those,  however,  which  you  now  admire,” 
said  Glorvina,  smiling,  “ are  no  offerings  of  rustic 
gallantry;  for  every' hut  in  the  country,  on  this 
morning,  will  bear  the  same  fanciful  decorations. 
The  wild  crocus,  and  indeed  every  flower  of  that 
rich  tint,  is  peculiarly  sacred  to  this  day.” 

And,  in  fact,  when,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  I 
rambled  out  alone,  and  looked  into  the  several  cab- 
ins, I perceived  not  only  their  floors  covered  with 
flags  and  rushes,  but  a “ Maybush,”  as  they  call 
it,  or  small  tree,  planted  before  all  the  doors,  cov- 
ered with  every  flower  the  season  affords. 

I saw  nothing  of  Glorvina  until  evening,  except 
for  a moment,  when  I perceived  her  lost  over  a 
book,  (as  I passed  her  closet  window)  which,  by 
the  Morocco  binding,  I knew  to  be  the  Letters  of 
the  impassioned  Heloise.  Since  her  society  was 
denied  me,  I was  best  satisfied  to  resign  her  to 
Rosseau.  Apropos ! it  was  among  the  books  I 
brought  hither ; and  they  were  all  precisely  such 
books  as  Glorvina  had  not  yet  should  read,  that 
she  may  know  herself,  and  the  latent  sensibility 
of  her  soul.  They  have,  of  course,  all  been  pre-^ 
sented  to  her,  and  consist  of  “ La  Nouvelle  Hel 


28 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


mse'^  de  Rosseau — the  unrivalled  “ Lettres  sur  la 
Mythologie'’*  de  Moustier — the  Paul  et  Vir- 
ginie^’’  of  St.  Pierre — the  Wcrter  of  Goethe — the 
Dolbreuse  of  Lousel,  and  the  Attilla  of  Chateau- 
briand. Let  our  English  novels  carry  away  the 
prize  of  morality  from  the  romantic  fictions  of 
every  other  country  ; but  you  will  find  they  rare^ 
ly  seize  on  the  imagination  through  the  medium 
of  the  heart ; and  as  for  their  heroines,  I confess, 
that  though  they  are  the  most  perfect  beings,  they 
are  also  the  most  stupid.  Surely,  virtue  would 
not  be  the  less  attractive  for  being  united  to  ge- 
nius  and  the  graces. 

But  to  return  to  the  never-to-be-forgotten  first 
ofiMay!  Early  in  the  evening  the  Prince,  his 
daughter,  the  priest,  the  bard,  the  old  nurse,  and 
indeed  all  the  household  of  Inismore,  adjourned 
to  the  vale,  which  being  the  only  level  ground  on 
the  peninsula,  is  always  appropriated  to  the  sports 
of  the  rustic  neighbours.  It  was  impossible  I 
should  enter  this  vale  without  emotion ; and  when 
I beheld  it  crowded  with  the  vulgar  throng,.  I felt 
as  if  it  were  profanation  for  the 
**  Sole  of  unblest  feet 

to  tread  that  ground  sacred  to  the  most  refined 
emotions  of  the  heart. 

Glorvina,  who  walked  on  before  the  priest  and 
me,  supporting  her  father,  as  we  entered  the  vale 
stole  a glance  at  me  ; and  a moment  after,  as  I 
opened  the  little  wicket  through  which  we  passed. 
I murmured  in  her  ear — La  val  di  Rosa! 


THK  WIID  IRISH  GIRL. 


29 


We  found  this  charming  spot  crowded  with 
peasantry  of  both  sexes  and  all  ages.*  Since 
morning  they  had  planted  a Maybnsh  in  the  cen- 
tre, which  was  hung  with  flowers,  and  round  the 
seats  appropriated  to  the  Prince  and  his  family, 
the  flag,  crocus,  and  primrose,  were  profusely 
scattered.  Two  blind  fiddlers,  and  an  excellent 
piper,t  were  seated  under  the  shelter  of  the  very 
hedge  which  had  been  the  nursery  of  my  precious 
rose ; while  the  old  bard,  with  true  druidical  dig- 
nity sal  under  the  shade  of  a venerable  oak,  near 
liis  master. 

* In  the  summer  of  1802,  the  author  was  present  at  a 
rural  festival  at  the  seat  of  a highly  respected  friend  in  Tip- 
perary, from  which  this  scene  is  partly  copied. 

t Although  the  bagpipe  is  not  an  instrument  indigenous 
to  Ireland,  it  holds  a high  antiquity  in  the  country.  It  was 
the  music  of  the  Kearns,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Third. 
[See  Smith’s  History  of  Cork,  page  43.]  It  is  still  the  fa- 
vourite accompaniment  of  those  mirthful  exertions  with 
which  laborious  poverty  crowns  the  temporary  cessation 
of  its  weekly  toil,  and  the  cares  and  solicitudes  of  the  Irish 
peasant  ever  dissipate  to  the  spell  which  breathes  in  the  hu- 
morous drones  of  the  Irish  pipes.  To  Scotland  we  are 
indebted  for  this  ancient  instrument,  who  received  it  from 
the  Romans  ; but  to  the  native  musical  genius  of  Irelanu 
are  we  indebted  for  its  present  form  and  improved  state. 
‘ That  at  present  in  use  in  Ireland,”  says  Dr.  Burney,  in  a 
letter  to  J.  C.  Walker,  Esq.,  is  an  improved  bagpipe,  on 
which  I have  heard  some  of  the  natives  play  very  well  in 
two  parts,  without  the  drone,  which,  I believe,  is  never  at- 
tempted in  Scotland  The  tone  of  the  lower  notes  resem- 
bles that  of  an  hautboy  or  clarionet,  and  the  high  notes,  that 
of  a German  flute  : and  the  whole  scale  of  one  I heard  late- 
ly was  very  well  in  tune,  which  has  never  been  the  case  of 
ftiiy  Scottish  bagpipe  that  I have  yet  heard.” 


30 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


The  sports  began  with  a wrestling  match  ;*  and 
in  the  gymnastic  exertions  of  the  youthful  com- 
batants there  was  something,  I thought,  of 
Spartan  energy  and  hardihood. 

But  as  “breaking  of  ribs  is  no  sport  for  ladies,” 
Glorvina  turned  from  the  spectacle  in  disgust ; 
which  I wished  might  have  been  prolonged,  as  it 
procured  me  (who  leaned  over  her  seat)  her  un- 
divided attention ; but  it  was  too  soon  concluded, 
though  without  any  disagreeable  consequences, 
for  neither  of  the  combatants  were  hurt,  though 
one  was  laid  prostrate.  The  victorious  wrestler 
was  elected  King  of  the  May  ; and,  with  “ all  his 
blushing  honours  thick  upon  him,”  came  timidly 
forward,  and  laid  his  rural  crown  at  the  feet  of 
Glorvina.  Yet  he  evidently  seemed  intoxicated 
with  his  happiness,  and  though  he  scarcely  touch- 
ed the  hand  of  his  blushing,  charming  oueen, 
yet  I perceived  a thousand  saucy  triumphs  bask- 
ing in  his  fine  black  eyes,  as  he  led  her  cat  to 
dance.  The  fellow  was  handsome  too.  I know 
not  why,  but  I could  have  knocked  him  down  with 
all  my  heart. 

“ Every  village  has  its  Caesar,”  said  the  priest, 
“ ai'd  this  is  ours.  He  has  been  elected  Kiag  of 
the  May  for  these  five  years  successively  He 

*The  yonng  Irish  peasantry  particularly  prize  them- 
eelves  on  this  species  of  exertion : tliey  have  almost  reduced 
it  to  a science,  hy  dividing  it  into  two  distinct  species — the 
one  called  “ sparnaight,”  engages  the  arms  only  ; the  other, 
“ carriaght,^’  engages  the  wliole  body. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OfRL. 


31 


18  second  son  lo-  our  old  steward,  and  a very 
worthy,  as  well  as  a very  fine  young  fellow.” 

“ I do  not  doubt  his  worth,”  returned  I,  peevish 
)y,  “but  it  certainly  cannot  exceed  the  condescen 
bioii  of  his  young  mistress.” 

“ There  is  nothing  singular  in  it,  however,’' 
said  the  priest.  “ Among  us,  over  such  meetings 
as  these,  inequality  of  rank  holds  no  obvious  juris- 
diction, though  in  fact  it  is  not  the  less  regarded  ; 
and  the  condescension  of  the  master  or  mistress 
on  these  occasions,  lessens  nothing  of  the  respect 
of  the  servant  upon  every  other  ; but  rather  secures 
it,  through  the  medium  of  gratitude  and  affection.” 

The  piper  had  now  struck  up  one  of  those  lilts, 
whose  mirth-inspiring  influence  it  is  almost  im- 
possible to  resist.*  The  Irish  jig,  above  every 
other  dance,  leaves  most  to  the  genius  of  the  dan- 
cer ; and  Glorvina,  above  all  the  women  I have 

* Besides  the  Irish  jig,  tradition  has  rescued  from  that 
oblivion  which  time  has  Imng  over  the  ancient  Irish  dance, 
the  rinceadh  fada,  which  answers  to  the  festal  dance  of  the 
Greeks;  and  the  rinceadh,  or  war  dance,  “ which  seems,’’ 
says  Mr,  Walker,  “ to  have  been  of  the  nature  of  the  arm- 
ed dance,  wliich  is  so  ancient,  at)d  with  which  the  Grecian 
youth  amused  themselves  during  the  seige  of  Troy. 

Previous  to  the  adoption  of  the  French  style  in  dancing, 
Mr.  O’Halloran  asserts,  that  both  our  private  and  public 
balls  always  concluded  with  the  “ rinceadh-fada.”  On  the 
arrival  of  James  the  Second  at  Kinsale,  his  adherents  re- 
ceived the  unfortunate  prince  on  the  shore  with  this  dance, 
with  whose  taste  and  execution  he  was  infinitely  delighted.* 
and  even  still,  in  the  county  of  Limerick  and  many  other 
parts  of  Ireland,  the  “ rinceadh-fada”  is  danced  on  the  ev# 
of  May. 


32 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


ever  seen,  seems  most,  formed  by  nature  to  exce^ 
in  the  art.  Her  little  form,  pliant  as  that  of  an 
Egyptian  alma^  floats  before  the  eye  in  all  the 
swimming  langour  of  the  most  graceful  motion, 
or  all  the  gay  exility  of  soul-inspired  animation. 
She  even  displays  an  exquisite  degree  of  comic 
humour  in  some  of  the  movements  of  her  nation- 
al dance  : and  her  eyes,  countenance,  and  air  ex- 
press the  wildest  exhilaration  of  pleasure,  and 
glow  with  all  the  spirit  of  health,  mirth,  and  ex- 
ercise. 

I was  so  struck  with  the  grace  and  elegance 
of  her  movements,  the  delicacy  of  her  form,  and 
me  play  of  her  drapery  gently  agitated  by  the 
air,  that  I involuntarily  gave  to  my  admiration  an 
audible  existence. 

“ Yes,”  said  the  priest,  who  overheard  me,  “ she 
performs  her  national  dance  with  great  grace  and 
spirit.  But  the  Irish  are  all  dancers ; and,  like 
the  Greeks,  we  have  no  idea  of  any  festival  here 
which  does  not  conclude  with  a dance  old  and 
young,  rich  and  poor,  all  join  here  in  the  spright- 
ly dance.” 

Glorvina,  unwearied,  still  continued  to  dance 
with  unabated  spirit,  and  even  seemed  governed 
by  the  general  principle  which  actuates  all  the 
Irish  dancers — of  not  giving  way  to  any  competi- 
tor in  the  exertion  ; for  she  actually  outdanced 

^ “ The  passion  of  the  Greeks  for  dancing  is  common  to 
botli  sexes,  who  neglect  every  other  consideration  when 
jjey  have  an  opportuni  y of  indulging  that  passion.’' 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


33 


her  partner,  who  had  been  jigging  with  all  his 
strength,  while  she  had  only  been  dancing  with 
all  her  soul ; and  when  he  retreated,  she  dropped 
a simple  curtsey  (according  to  the  laws  of  jig-dan- 
cing here)  to  another  young  rustic,  whose  seven 
league  brogues  finally  prevailed,  and  Glorvina  at 
last  gave  way,  while  he  made  a scrape  to  a rosy 
cheeked,  barefooted  damsel,  who  out  jigged  him 
and  his  two  successors  ; and  thus  the  chain  went 
on. 

Glorvina,  as  she  came  panting  and  glowing  to- 
wards me,  exclaimed,  “ I have  done  my  duty  for 
the  evening  and  threw  herself  on  a seat,  breath- 
less and  smiling. 

“Nay,”  said  I,  “ more  than  your  duty ; for  you 
even  performed  a work  of  supererogation.”  And 
1 cast  a pointed  look  at  the  young  rustic  who  had 
been  the  object  of  her  election. 

“ 0 !”  she  replied,  eagerly — “ it  is  the  custom 
here,  and  I should  be  sorry,  for  the  indulgence  of 
an  overstrained  delicacy,  to  violate  any  of  those 
established  rules  to  which,  however  trifling,  they 
are  devotedly  attached.  Besides,  you  perceive,” 
she  added,  smiling,  “ this  condescension  on  the 
part  of  the  females,  who  are  thus  ‘ won  unsought,’ 
does  not  render  the  men  more  presumptuous. 
You  see  what  a distance  the  youth  of  both  sexes 
preserve — a distance  which  always  exists  in  these 
kind  of  pul  lie  meetings.” 

And,  in  fact,  the  lads  and  lasses  were  ranged 
opposite  to  each  other,  with  no  other  intercourse 
C 


34 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


than  wliat  the  communion  of  the  eyes  afforded, 
or  the  transient  intimacy  of  the  jig  bestowed.* 

“ And  will  you  not  dance  a jig  asked  Glor- 
vina. 

“ I seldom  dance,”  said  I — “ 111  health  has  for 
some  time  back  coincided  with  my  inclination, 
which  seldom  led  me  to  try  my  skill  at  the  Poetry 
of  motion^ 

“ Poetry  of  motion  /”  repeated  Glorvina — 
“ What  a beautiful  idea !”  ' 

“ It  is  so,”  said  I,  “ and  if  it  had  been  my  own, 
it  must  have  owed  its  existence  to  you  ; for  your 
dancing  is  certainly  the  true  poetry  of  motion, 
and  Epic  poetry  too.” 

“ I love  dancing  with  all  my  heart,”  she  replied; 
“ when  I dance  I have  not  a care  on  earth — every 
thing  swims  gaily  before  me  ; and  I feel  as  swift- 
ly borne  away  in  a vortex  of  pleasurable  sensa- 
lion,” 

“ Dancing,”  said  I,  “ is  the  talent  of  your  sex 
— ^that  pure  grace  which  must  result  from  a sym- 
metrical form,  and  that  elixity  of  temperament 
which  is  the  effect  of  woman’s  delicate  organiza- 
tion, creates  you  dancers.  And  while  I beheld 
your  performances  this  evening,  I no  longer  won- 

* This  custom,  so  prevalent  in  some  parts  of  Ireland,  id 
of  a very  ancient  origin.  We  read  in  Keating’s  History 
of  Ireland,  that  in  the  remotest  periods,  when  the  Irisn 
brought  their  children  to  the  fair  of  Tailtean,  in  order  to 
dispose  of  them  in  marriage,  the  strictest  order  was  ob- 
served j the  men  and  women  having  distinct  places  assigned 
them  at  a certain  distance  from  each  other. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  35 

dered  that  the  gravity  of  Socrates  could  not  resist 
the  spell  which  lurked  in  the  graceful  motions  of 
A‘pasia,  but  followed  her  in  the  mazes  of  the 
dance.” 

She  bowed,  and  salJ,  I “ flattered  too  agreea* 
bly,  not  to  be  listened  to  with  pleasure^  if  not 
with 

In  short,  I have  had  a thousand  occasions  to 
observe,  that  while  she  receives  a decided  com- 
pliment with  the  ease  of  almost  hon  ton  noncha- 
lance,  a look,  a broken  sentence,  a word,  has  the 
power  of  overwhelming  her  with  confusion,  or 
awakening  all  the  soul  of  emotion  in  her  bosom. 
All  this  I can  understand. 

As  the  dew  of  the  evening  now  began  to  fall, 
the  invalid  Prince  and  his  lovely  daughter  arose 
to  retire.  And  those  who  had  been  rendered  so 
happy  by  their  condescension,  beheld  their  re- 
treat with  regret,  and  followed  them  with  bless- 
ings. Whiskey,  milk,  and  oaten  bread  were  now 
distributed  in  abundance  by  the  old  nurse  and  the 
steward ; and  the  dancing  was  recommenced  with 
new  ardour. 

The  priest  and  I remained  behind,  conversing 
with  the  old  and  jesting  with  the  young — he  in 
Irish,  and  I in  English,  with  such  as  understood  it. 
The  girls  received  my  little  gallantries  with  con- 
siderable archness,  and  even  with  some  point  of 
repartee ; while  the  priest  rallied  them  in  their 
own  way,  for  he  seems  as  playful  as  a child 
among  them,  though  evidently  worshipped  as  a 


36 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


sakit.  And  the  moon  rose  resplendently  ovei 
the  vale,  before  it  was  restored  to  its  wonted 
solitary  silence. 

Glorvina  has  made  the  plea  of  a headache 
these  two  mornings  back,  for  playing  the  truant 
at  her  drawing  desk  ; but  the  fact  is,  her  days  and 
nights  are  devoted  to  the  sentimental  sorcery  of 
Rosseau  , and  the  effects  of  her  studies  are  visi- 
ble in  hei  eyes.  When  we  meet,  her  glance 
sinks  beneath  the  ardour  of  mine  in  soft  confusion ; 
her  manner  is  no  longer  childishly  playful,  or 
carelessly  indifferent,  and  sometimes  a sigh,  scarce 
breathed,  is  discovered  by  the  blush  which  glows 
on  her  cheek  for  the  madvertency  of  her  lip. 
Does  she,  then,  begin  to  feel  she  has  a heart? 
Does  “ Le  besoin  de  Vame  tendre^'*  already  throb 
with  vague  emotion  in  her  bosom  ? Her  abstract- 
ed air,  her  delicious  melancholy,  her  unusual 
softness,  betray  the  nature  of  the  feelings  by 
which  she  is  overwhelmed — they  are  new  to  her- 
self; and  sometimes  I f^ncy,  when  she  turns  her 
melting  eyes  on  me,  it  is  to  solicit  their  meaning. 
O ! if  I dared  become  the  interpreter  between  her 
and  her  heart — if  I dared  indulge  myself  in  the 

hope,  the  belief  that and  what  then  ? ’Tis 

all  folly,  ’tis  madness,  ’tis  worse!  But  whoever 
yet  rejected  the  blessing  for  which  his  soul  thirst- 
ed ? — And  in  the  scale  of  human  felicities,  if  there 
is  one  in  which  all  others  is  summed  up — above, 
all  others  supremely  elevated — it  is  the  conscious- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


37 


ness  of  having  awakened  the  first  sentiment  of 
the  sweetest,  the  sublirnest  of  all  passions,  in 
the  bosom  of  youth,  genius,  and  sensibility. 

Adieu,  H.  M. 


LETTER  XX. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I HAD  just  finished  my  last  by  the  beams  of  a 
gloriously  setting  sun,  when  I was  startled  by  a 
pebble  being  thrown  in  at  my  window.  I looked 
out,  and  perceived  Father  John  in  the  act  of  fling- 
ing up  another,  which  the  hand  of  Glorvina  (who 
was  leaning  on  his  arm)  prevented. 

If  you  are  not  engaged  in  writing  to  your 
mistress,”  said  he,  “ come  down  and  Join  us  in  a 
ramble.” 

And  though  I were,”  I replied,  “ I could  not 
resist  your  challenge.”  And  down  I flew — Glor- 
vina laughing,  sent  me  back  for  my  hat,  and  we 
proceeded  on  our  walk. 

“ This  is  an  evening,”  said  I,  looking  at  Glorvi- 
na, “ worthy  of  the  morning  of  the  first  of  May, 
and  we  have  seized  it  in  that  happy  moment  so 
exquisitly  described  by  Collins  : 

<<  ‘While  now  the  bright  hair’d  sun 

Sits  on  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts 
With  brede  etherial  wove, 

O’crhang  his  wavy  bed.’ 

VOL.  II.  4 


38 


THE  M ILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


“ O ! that  beautiful  ode  !’*  exclaimed  Glorvina, 
with  all  her  wildest  enthusiasm — “ never  can  1 
read — never  hear  it  repeated  but  with  emotion. 
The  perusal  of  Ossian’s  ‘ Song  of  Other  Times,’ 
the  breezy  respiration  of  my  harp  at  twilight,  the 
last  pale  rose  that  outlives  its  season,  and  bears 
on  its  faded  breast  the  frozen  tears  of  the  wintry 
dawn,  and  Collins’s  ‘ Ode  to  Evening,’  awaken  in 
my  heart  and  fancy  the  same  train  of  indescriba- 
ble feeling,  of  exquisite,  yet  unspeakable  sensa- 
tion. Alas  ! the  solitary  pleasure  of  feeling  thus 
alone  the  utter  impossibility  of  conveying  to  the 
bosom  of  another  those  ecstatic  emotions  by  which 
our  own  is  sublimed. 

While  my  very  soul  followed  this  brilliant 
comet  to  her  perihelion  of  sentiment  and  imagi- 
nation, I fixed  my  eyes  on  her  “ mind-illumin’d 
face,”  and  said, 

“ And  is  expression  then  necesary  for  the  con- 
veyance of  such  profound,  such  exquisite  feeling  ? 
May  not  the  similarity  of  a refined  organization 
exist  between  souls,  and  produce  that  mutual  in- 
telligence which  sets  the  necessity  of  cold,  verbal 
expression  at  defiance  ? May  not  the  sympathy  of 
a kindred  sensibility  in  the  bosom  of  another, 
meet  and  enjoy  those  delicious  feelings  by  which 
yours  is  warmed,  and,  sinking  beneath  the  inade- 
quacy of  language  to  give  them  birth,  feel  like 
you,  in  silent  and  sacred  emotion  ?” 

“ Perhaps,”  said  the  priest,  with  his  usual  sim- 
plicity, “ this  sacred  sympathy,  between  two  re- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


39 


fined  and  elevated  souls,  in  the  sublime  and  beau- 
tiful of  the  moral  and  natural  world,  approaches 
nearest  to  the  rapturous  and  pure  emotions  which 
uncreated  spirits  may  be  supposed  to  feel  in  their 
heavenly  communion,  than  any  other  human  sen- 
timent with  which  we  are  acquainted. 

For  all  the  looks  of  blandishment  which  ever 
flung  their  spell  from  beauty’s  eye,  I would  not 
have  exchanged  the  glance  which  Glorvina  at  that 
moment  cast  on  me.  While  the  priest,  who  seemed 
to  have  been  following  up  the  train  of  thought 
awakened  by  our  preceding  observations,  abruptly 
added,  after  a silence  of  some  minutes — 

‘“There  is  a species  of  metaphorical  taste,  if 
may  be  allowed  the  expression,  whose  admiration 
for  certain  objects  is  not  deducible  from  the  estab- 
lished rules  of  beauty,  order,  or  even  truth  ; which 
should  be  the  basis  of  our  approbation ; yet  which 
ever  brings  with  it  a sensation  of  more  lively 
pleasure  ; as  for  instance,  a chromatic  passion  in 
music  will  awaken  a thrill  of  delight  which  a 
simple  chord  could  never  effect.” 

“ Nor  would  the  most  self-evident  truth,”  said  I, 
“ awaken  so  vivid  a sensation,  as  when  we  find 
some  sentiment  of  the  soul  illustrated  by  some 
law  or  principle  in  science.  To  an  axiom  we  an- 
nounce our  assent,  but  we  lavish  our  most  enthu- 
siastic approbation  when  Rosseau  tells  us  that  ‘ Les 
ames  humaines  veulent  etre  accomplies  pour  va- 
loir  toute  leurs  prix,  et  la  force  unie  des  ames 
comme  celles  des  larmes  d^un  aimant  arlijiciel^  esi 


40 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


incoiDparablement  plus  grands  que  la  somme  dfc 
leurs  force  particiilier.’  ” 

As  ibis  quotation  was  meant  all  for  Glorvina,  1 
looked  earnestly  at  her  as  I repeated  it.  A crim- 
son torrent  rushed  to  her  cheek,  and  convinced 
me  that  she  felt  the  full  force  of  a sentiment  so 
applicable  to  us  both. 

“ And  why,’’  said  I,  addressing  her  in  a low 
voiee,  “ was  Rosseau  excluded  from  the  sacred 
coalition  with  Ossian,  Collins,  your  twilight  harp, 
and  winter  rose 

Glorvina  made  no  reply  ; but  turned  full  on  me 
her  “ eyes  of  dewy  light.”  Mine  almost  sunk 
beneath  the  melting  ardour  of  their  soul-beaming 

o O 

glance. 

Oh!  child  of  Nature!  child  of  genius  and  of 
passion  ! why  was  I withheld  from  throwing  my- 
self at  thy  feet ; from  offering  thee  the  homage  of 
that  soul  thou  hast  awakened  ; from  covering  thy 
hands  with  my  kisses,  and  bathing  them  with 
tears  of  such  delicious  emotion,  as  thou  only  hast 
power  to  inspire  ? 

While  we  thus  “ huvames  a longs  traits  le  phiU 
ire  de  V amour Father  John  gradually  restored  us 
to  commonplace  existence,  by  a commonplace 
conversation  on  the  fineness  of  the  weather, 
promising  aspect  of  the  season,  (fee.,  until  the 
moon,  as  it  rose  sublimely  above  the  summit  of 
the  mountain,  called  forth  the  melting  tones  of 
my  Glorvina’s  syren  voice. 

Casting  up  her  eyes  to  that  Heaven  whence 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


41 


they  seem  to  have  caught  their  emanation,  she 
said,  “ I do  nj3t  wonder  that  unenlightened  nations 
should  worship  the  moon.  Our  ideas  are  so  inti- 
mately connected  with  our  senses,  so  ductilely 
transferable  from  cause  to  effect,  that  the  abstract 
thought  may  readily  subside  in  the  sensible  image 
which  awakens  it.  When,  in  the  awful  stillness 
of  a calm  night,  I fix  my  eyes  on  the  mild  and  beau- 
tiful orb,  the  created  has  become  the  awakening 
medium  of  that  adoration  I offered  to  the  Creator 
“ Yes,”  said  the  priest,  “ I remember  that  everii 
in  your  childhood,  you  used  to  fix  your  eyes  on 
the  moon,  and  gaze  and  wonder.  I believe  it- 
would  have  been  no  difficult  matter  to  have  plung- 
ed you  back  into  the  heathenism  of  your  ances- 
tors, and  to  have  made  it  one  of  the  gods  of  your 
idolatry.” 

“ And  was  the  chaste  Luna  in  the  album  sane* 
torum  of  your  Druidical  mythology  ?”'said  I. 

“ Undoubtedly,”  said  the  priest,  “ we  read  in 
the  life  of  our  celebrated  saint,  St.  Columba,  that 
on  the  altar-piece  of  a Druidical  temple,  the  sun, 
moon,  and  stars  were  curiously  depicted  ; and  the 
form  of  the  ancient  Irish  oath  of  allegiance,  was 
to  swear  by  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  other 
deities,  celestial  as  well  as  terrestrial.” 

“ How,”  said  I,  “ did  your  mythology  touch  m 
closely  on  that  of  the  Greeks  ? Had  you  also  your 
Pans  and  your  Daphnes,  as  well  as  your  Dians 
and  Apollos  ?”  ^ 

“ Here  is  a curious  anecdote  that  evinces  it 
4* 


42 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


returned  the  priest — “ It  is  many  years  since  1 
read  it  in  a black-letter  memoir  of  St.  Patrick. 
The  Saint,  says  the  biographer,  attended  by  three 
bishops,  and  some  less  dignified  of  his  brethren, 
being  in  this  very  province,  arose  early  one  morn- 
ing, and  with  his  pious  associates,  placed  himself 
near  a fountain  or  well,  and  began  to  chant  a 
hymn.  In  the  neighbourhood  of  this  honoured 
fountain  stood  the  palace  of  Cruacltan,  where  the 
two  daughters  of  the  Emperor  Laogare  were  edu- 
cating in  retirement ; and  as  the  saints  sung  by 
no  means  sotto  voce,*  their  pious  strains  caught 
the  attention  of  the  royal  fair  ones,  who  were  en- 
joying an  early  ramble,  and  who  immediately 
souoht  the  sanctified  choristers.  Full  of  that 

O 

curiosity  so  natural  to  the  youthful  recluses,  they 
were  by  no  means  sparing  of  interrogations  to  the 
Saint,  and  among  other  questions  demanded, ‘and 
who  is  your  God?  Where  dwells  he,  in  heaven 
or  on  the  earth,  or  beneath  the  earth,  or  in  the 
mountain,  or  in  the  valley,  or  the  sea,  or  the 
stream  V — And  indeed,  even  to  this  day,  we  have 
Irish  for  a river  £fod,  which  wo  call  Divona, — 
You  perceive,  therefore,  that  our  ancient  religion 
was  by  no  means  an  unpoetical  one.” 

*A  musical  voice  was  an  indispensable  quality  in  an 
Irish  Saint,  and  “ lungs  of  leather”  no  trivial  requisite  to- 
wards obtaining  cjinonization.  St.  Colunibkill,  we  are 
told,  sung  so  loud,  that,  according  to  an  old  Irish  poem, 
called  “ Amhra  Chioluim  chille,”  or  The  Vision  of  Col 
iimbkill, 

“ His  hallovvM  voice  beyond  a mile  was  heard.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


43 


While  we  spoke,  we  observed  a figure  (niierg- 
iiig  from  a coppice  towards  a small  well,  which 
issued  beneath  the  roots  of  a blasted  oak.  The 
priest  motioned  us  to  stop,  and  be  silent — the 
figure  (which  was  that  of  an  ancient  female 
wrapped  in  a long  cloak,)  approached,  and  hav- 
ing drank  of  the  well  out  of  a little  cup,  she  went 
three  times  round  it  on  her  knees,  praying  with 
great  fervency  over  her  beads  ; then  rising  alter 
this  painful  ceri^mony,  she  tore  a small  part  of 
her  under  garb,  and  hung  it  on  the  branch  of  the 
tree  which  shaded  the  well. 

“ This  ceremony,  I perceive,”  said  the  priest, 
“ surprises  you  ; but  you  have  now  witnessed  the 
remains  of  one  of  our  ancient  superstitions.  The 
ancient  Irish,  like  the  Greeks,  were  religiously 
attached  to  the  consecrated  fountain,  the  Vel  ex- 
piatoria ; and  our  early  missionaries,  discovering 
the  fondness  of  the  natives  for  these  sanctified 
springs,  artfully  diverted  the  course  of  their  super- 
stitious faith,  and  dedicated  them  to  Christian 
saints.” 

“ There  is  really,”  said  I,  “ something  truly 
classic  in  this  spot ; and  here  is  this  little  shrine 
of  Christian  superstition  hung  with  the  same  vo- 
tive gifts  as  Pausanius  informs  us  obscured  the 
statue  of  Hygeia  in  Secyonia.” 

“ This  is  nothing  extraordinary  here,”  said  the 
priest ; “ these  consecrated  wells  are  to  be  found 
in  every  part  of  the  kingdom.  But  of  all  our 
AcqucB  SanctijicatcB,  Lough  Derg  is  the  most  cele- 


44 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


brated.  It  is  the  Loretto  of  Ireland,  and  votarista 
from  ev(3ry  part  of  the  kingdom  resort  to  it.  So 
great,  indeed,  is  the  still-existing  veneration 
among  the  lower  orders  for  these  holy  wells,  that 
those  who  live  at  too  great  a distance  to  make  a 
pilgrimage  to  one,  are  content  to  purchase  a spe- 
cies of  amulet  made  of  a sliver  of  the  tree  which 
shades  the  well,  (and  imbued  with  its  waters,) 
which  they  wear  round  their  necks.  These  curi- 
ous amulets  are  sold  at  fairs,  by«.  species  of  stur- 
dy beggar,  called  a Bacagh,  who  stands  with  a 
long  pole,  with  a box  fixed  at  the  top  of  it,  for 
the  reception  of  alms  ; while  he  alternately  extols 
the  miraculous  property  of  the  amulet,  and  details 
his  own  miseries  ; thus  at  once  endeavouring  to 
interest  the  faith  and  charity  of  the  always  benev- 
olent, always  credulous  multitude.’’ 

“ Strange,”  said  I,  “ that  religion  in  all  ages 
and  in  all  countries  should  depend  so  much  on 
the  impositions  of  one  half  of  mankind,  and  the 
credulity  and  indolence  of  the  other.  Thus  the 
Egyptians  (to  whom  even  Greece  herself  stood 
indebted  for  the  principles  of  those  arts  and 
sciences  by  which  she  became  the  most  illustrious 
country  in  the  world)  resigned  themselves  so  en- 
tirely to  the  impositions  of  their  priests,  as  to  be- 
lieve that  the  safety  and  happiness  of  life  itself 
depended  on  the  motions  of  an  ox,  or  the  tame- 
ness of  a crocodile.” 

“ Stop,  stop,”  interrupted  Father  John,  smiling, 
“ you  forget,  that  though  you  wear  the  San-Benito, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


45 


or  robe  of  heresy  yourself,  you  are  in  the  company 

of  those  who ” ' - 

“ Exactly  think  on  certain  points, interrupted 
I,  “ even  as  my  heretical  self.” 

This  observ^ation  led  to  a little  controversial 
dialogue,  which,  as  it  would  stand  a very  poor 
chance  of  being  read  by  you,  will  stand  none  at 
all  of  being  transcribed  by  me.  - 

When  we  returned  home  we  found  the  Prince 
impatiently  watching  for  us  at  the  window,  fear- 
ful lest  the  dews  of  heaven  should  have  fallen  too 
heavily  on  the  head  of  his  heart’s  idol,  who  finish- 
ed her  walk  in  silence;  either,  I believe,  not 
much  pleased  with  the  turn  given  to  the  conver- 
sation by  the  priest,  or  not  sufficiently  interested 
in  it. 


I know  not  how  it  is,  but  since  the  morning  of 
the  first  of  May,  I feel  as  though  my  soul  had 
entered  into  a covenant  with  hers;  as  though  our 
very  beings  were  indissolubly  interwoven  with' 
each  other.  And  yet  the  freedom  which  once 
existed  in  our  intercourse  is  fled.  I approach  her 
trembling  ; and  she  repels  the  most  distant  advan- 
ces with  such  dignified  softness,  such  chastely 
modest  reserve,  that  the  restraint  I sometimes  la- 
bour under  in  her  presence,  is  almost  concomitant 
to  the  bliss  it  bestows. 

This  morning,  when  she  came  to  her  drawing- 
dei^k,  she  held  a volume  of  De  Moustier  in  hei 


46 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


hand — “ I have  brought  this,”  said  she,  “ for  oui 
hon  Pere  Dirccteur  to  read  out  to  us.” 

He  has  commissioned  me,”  said  I,  “ to  make 
his  excuses ; he  is  gone  to  visit  a sick  man  on 
the  other  side  of  the  mountain.” 

At  this  intelligence  she  blushed  to  the  eyes: 
but  suddenly  recovering  herself,  she  put  the  book 
into  my  hands,  and  said  with  a smile,  “ then  you 
must  officiate  for  him.” 

As  soon  as  she  was  seated  at  the  drawing-desk, 
I opened  the  book,  and  by  chance  at  the  beauti- 
ful description  of  the  Boudoir  : 

“ J’ainie  une  boudoir  etroite  qu’un  demi  jour  eclaire, 

La  moil  coeur  est  chez  lui,  le  premier  demi  jour 
Fruit  par  la  volupte,  menage  pour  I’amour, 

La  discrete  amitie,  veut  aussi  du  mystere, 

Gtuand  de  iios  bons  amis  dans  un  lieu  limitie, 

Le  cercle  peu  nombreux  pres  de  nous  rassemblo 
Le  sentiment,  la  paix,  la  franche  liberte 
Preside  en  commun,^’  &c. 

I wish  you  could  see  this  creature,  when  any- 
thing is  said  or^read  that  comes  home  to  her  heart, 
or  strikes  in  immediate  unison  with  the  exquisite 
tone  of  her  feelings.  Never  sure  was  there  a 
finer  commentary  than  her  looks  and  gestures 
passed  on  any  work  of  interest  which  engages  her 
attention.  Before  I had  finished  the  perusal  of 
this  charming  little  fragment,  the  pencil  had 
dropped  from  her  fingers  ; and  often  she  waved 
her  beautiful  head  and  smiled,  and  breathed  a 
faint  exclamation  of  delight ; and  when  I laid 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  47 

(^own  the  book,  she  said,  while  she  leaned  hef 
face  on  her  clasped  hands 

“ And  1 too  have  a boudoir  ! — but  even  a bou- 
doir may  become  a dreary  solitude,  exce^^t’’ — ■ 
she  paused  ; and  I added,  from  the  poem  I had 
just  read,  “ except  that  within  its  social  little 
limits 

“ La  confidence  ingenu  rapproche  deux  atnis.’ 

Her  eyes,  half  raised  to  mine,  suddenly  cast 
down,  beamed  a tender  acquiescence  to  the  sen- 
timent. 

“ But,”  said  I,  “if  the  being  worthy  of  sharing 
the  bliss  such  an  intercourse  in  such  a place 
must  confer,  is  yet  to  be  found,  is  its  hallowed 
circle  inviolable  to  the  intrusive  footstep  of  an  in- 
ferior, though  perhaps  not  less  ardent  votarist  ?” 

“ Since  you  have  been  here,”  said  she,  “ I have 
scarcely  ever  visited  this  once  favourite  retreat 
invself.” 

“ Am  I to  take  that  as  a compliment  or  .other- 
wise ?”  said  I. 

“ Just  as  it  is  meant,”  said  she — “ as  a fact 
and  she  added,  with  an  inadvertent  simplicity,  in- 
to which  the  ardour  of  her  temper  often  betrays 
her — “ I never  can  devote  myself  partially  to 
anything — I am  either  all  enthusiasm  or  all  in- 
difference.” 

Not  for  the  world  would  I have  made  her  feel 
the  full  force  of  this  avowal ; but  requested  per- 
mission to  visit  .his  now  deserted  boudoir. 

“ Certainly,”  she  replied — “ it  is  a little  closet 


48 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


in  that  ruiiicd  tower,  which  terminates  corri- 
dor in  which  your  apartment  lies.” 

“ Then,  I am  privileged  ?”  said  I. 

“ Undoubtedly,”  she  returned  ; and  the  Prince 
who  had  risen  unusually  early,  entered  the  room 
at  that  moment,  and  joined  us  at  the  drawing-desk. 

The  absence  of  the  good  priest  left  me  to  a 
solitary  dinner.  Glorvina  (as  is  usual  with  her) 
spent  the  first  part  of  the  evening  in  her  father’s 
room;  and  thus  denied  her  society,  1 endeavour- 
ed to  supply  its  want — its  soul-felt  want,  by  a visit 
to  her  boudoir. 

There  is  a certain  tone  of  feeling  when  fancy 
is  in  its  acme,  when  sentiment  holds  the  senses 
in  subordination,  and  the  visionary  joys  which 
float  in  the  imagination  shed  a livelier  bliss  oii 
the  soul,  than  the  best  pleasures  cold  reality  ever 
conferred.  Then,  even  the  presence  of  a beloved 
object  is  not  more  precious  to  the  heart  than  the 
spot  consecrated  to  her  memory  ; where  we  fancy 
the  very  air  is  impregnated  with  her  respiration  ; 
every  object  is  hallowed  by  her  recent  touch, 
and  that  all  around  breathes  of  her. 

In  such  a mood  of  mind,  I ascended  to  Glor- 
vina’s  boudoir  ; and  I really  believe,  that  had  she 
accompanied,  I should  have  felt  less  than  when 
alone  and  unseen  I stole  to  the  asylum  of  her 
pensive  thoughts.  It  lay  as  she  had  described  ; 
and  almost  as  I passed  its  threshold,  I was  sensi- 
bly struck  by  the  incongruity  of  its  appearance — • 


THE  AULD  IRISH  GIRL. 


49 


it  seemed  to  me  as  though  it  had  been  partly  fur- 
nished in  the  beginning  of  one  century,  and  finish- 
ed in  the  conclusion  of  another.  The  walls  were 
rudely  wainscotted  with  oak,  black  with  age  ; yet 
the  floor  was  covered  with  a Turkey  carpet,  rich, 
new,  and  beautiful — better  adapted  to  cover  a 
Parisian  dressing-room  than  the  closet  of  a ruined 
tower.  The  casements  were  high  and  narrow, 
but  partly  veiled  with  a rich  drapery  of  scarlet 
silk:  a few  old  chairs,  heavy  and  cumbrous,  were 
interspersed  with  stools  of  an  antique  form ; one 
of  which  lay  folded  upon  the  ground,  so  as  to  be 
portable  in  a travelling  trunk.  On  a ponderous 
Gothic  table  (which  seemed  a fixture  coeval  with 
the  building)  was  placed  a silver  escritoire^  of 
curious  and  elegant  workmanship,  and  two  small, 
but  beautiful  antique  vases  (fillevi  with  flowers) 
of -Etrurian  elegance.  Two  little  book-shelves, 
elegantly  designed',  but  most  clumsily  executed, 
(probabl}'  by  some  hedge-carpenter)  were  filled 
with  the  best  French,  English,  and  Italian  poets ; 
and,  to  my  utter  astonishment,  not  only  some  new 
publications  scarce  six  months  old,  but  two  Lon- 
don newspapers  of  no  distant  date,  lay  scattered 
on  the  table,  with  some  MS.  music,  and  some 
unfinished  drawings. 

Having  gratified  my  curiosity,  by^  examining  the 
singular  incongruities  of  this  paradoxical  boudoir, 
1 leaned  for  some  time  against  one  of  the  win- 
dows, endeavouring  to  make  out  some  defaced 

VOL.  II.  D 5 


50 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


lines  cut  on  its  panes  with  a diamond,  when  Glor 
vina  herself  entered  the  room. 

As  I stood  concealed  by  the  silken  drapery,  she 
did  not  perceive  me.  A basket  of  flowers  hung 
on  her  arm,  from  which  she  replenished  the 
vases,  having  first  flung  away  their  faded  treasures. 
As  she  stood  thus  engaged  and  cheering  her 
sweet  employment  with  a murmured  song,  I stole 
softly  behind  her,  and  my  breath  disturbing  the 
ringlets  which  had  escaped  from  the  bondage  of 
her  bodkin,  and  seemed  to-cling  to  her  neck  for 
protection,  she  turned  quickly  round,  and  with  a 
start,  a blush,  and  a smile,  said,  “ Ah ! so  soon 
here!” 

“ You  perceive,”  said  I,  “ your  immunity  was 
not  lost  on  me  ! I have  been  here  this  half  hour !” 

“ Indeed !”  she  replied,  and  casting  round  a 
quick  inquiring  glance,  hastily  collected  the  scat- 
tered papers,  and  threw  them  into  a drawer ; ad- 
ding, “I  intended  to  have  made  some  arrange- 
ments in  this  deserted  little  place,  that  you  might 
see  it  in  its  best  garb  ; but  had  scarcely  begun 
the  necessary  reform  this  morning,  when  I was 
suddenly  called  to  my  father,  and  could  not  till 
this  moment  find  leisure  to  return  hither.” 

While  she  spoke  I gazed  earnestly  at  her.  It 
struck  me  there  \vas  a something  of  mystery  over 
this  apartment , yet  wherefore  should  mystery 
dwell  where  all  breathes  the  ingenuous  simplicity 
of  the  golden  age  ? Glorvina  moved  towards  the 
casement,  threw  open  the  sash,  and  laid  her  fresh 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


51 


gathered  flowers  on  the  seat.  Their  perfume 
scented  the  room  ; and  a new  fallen  shower  stilt 
glittered  on  the  honeysuckle  which  she  was  en- 
deavouring to  entice  through  the  window  round 
which  it  crept. 

The  sun  was  setting  with  rather  a mild  than  a 
dazzling  splendoui;  and  the  landscape  was  richly 
impurpled  with  its  departing  beams,  w^hich,  as  they 
darted  through  the  scarlet  drapery  of  the  curtain,  ^ 
shed  warmly  over  the  countenance  and  figure  of 
Glorvina  Lovers  proper  hueP 

We  both  remained  silent,  until  her  eye  acci- 
dentally meeting  mine,  a more  “ celestial  rosy 
red”  invested  her  cheek.  She  seated  herself  in 
the  window^  and  I drew  a chair  and  sat  near  her. 
All  within  was  the  softest  gloom — all  without  the 
most  solemn  stillness.  The  gray  vapours  of  twi- 
light were  already  stealing  amidst  the  illumined 
clouds  that  floated  in  the  atmosphere — the  sun’s 
golden  beams  no  longer  scattered  round  their  rich 
suflusion;  and  the  glow  of  retreating  day  was 
fading  even  from  the  horizon  where  its  parting 
glories  faintly  lingered. 

It  is  a sweet  hour,”  said  Glorvina,  softly 
sighing. 

O O 

“ It  is  a hondoirizing  hour,”  said  I. 

“It  is  a golden  one  for  a poetic  heart,”  she 
added. 

“ Or  an  enamoured  one,”  I returned.  “ It  is 
die  hour  in  which  the  soul  best  knows  itself; 
when  every  low-thoughted  care  is  excluded,  and 


52 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  pensi/e  pleasures  take  possessicm  of  the  di» 
solving  heart. 

“ Ces  douces  Imuieres 

Ces  sombre  c.airtes 

Sont  les  jours  de  la  volupte.^ 

And  what  was  the  voluptas  of  Epicurus,  but  those 
refined  and  elegant  enjoyments  which  must  de- 
rive their  spirit  from  virtue  and  from  health  ; from 
a vivid  fancy,  susceptible  feelings,  and  a cultiva- 
ted mind  ; and  which  are  never  so  fully  tasted  as 
in  this  sweet  season  of  the  day  ; then  the  influ- 
ence of  sentiment  is  buoyant  over  passion ; the 
soul,  alive  to  the  sublimest  impression,  expands 
in  the  region  of  pure  and  elevated  meditation : 
the  passions,  slumbering  in  the  soft  repose  of 
Nature,  leave  the  heart  free  to  the  reception  of 
the  purest,  warmest,  tenderest  sentiments — when 
all  is  delicious  melancholy,  or  pensive  softness ; 
when  every  vulgar  wish  is  hushed,  and  a rapture, 
an  indefinable  rapture,  thrills  with  sweet  vibration 
on  every  nerve.” 

“ It  is  thus  I have  felt, said  the  all-impassion- 
ed Glorvina,  clasping  her  hands  and  fixing  her 
humid  eyes  on  mine — ‘‘  thus,  in  the  dearth  of  all 
kindred  feeling,  have  I felt.  But  never,  oh ! till 
now — never  r — and  she  abruptly  paused,  and 
drooped  her  head  on  the  back  of  my  chair,'"over 
which  my  hand  rested,  and  felt  the  soft  pressure 
lof  her  glowing  cheek,  while  her  balmy  sigh 
breathed  its  odour  on  my  lip. 

Oh!  had  not  her  celestial  onfidence, her  an- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


53 


gelic  purity,  sublimed  every  thought,  restrained 
every  wish  ; at  that  moment ; that  too  fortunate  ; 
too  dangtrous  moment ! ! ! — Yet  even  as  it  was, 
in  the  delicious  agony  of  my  soul,  I secretly  ex- 
claimed with  the  legislator  of  Lesbos — “ It  is  too 
difficult  to  he  always  virtuous  /”  while  I half  audi- 
bly breathed  on  the  ear  of  Glorvina — 

“Nor  I,  O first  of  all  created  beings ! never, 
never  till  I beheld  thee,  did  I know  the  pure  rap- 
ture which  the  intercourse  of  a kindred  soul 
awakens — of  that  sacred  communion  with  a su- 
perior intelligence,  which,  while  it  raises  me  iji 
my  own  estimation,  tempts  me  to  emulate  that 
excellence  I adore.” 

Glorvina  raised  her  head — her  melting  eyes 
met  mine,  and  her  cheek  rivalled  the  snow  of 
that  hand  which  was  pressed  with  passionate  ar- 
dour on  my  lips.  Then  her  eyes  were  bashfully 
withdrawn  ; she  again  drooped  her  head — not  on 
the  chair,  but  on  my  shoulder.  What  followed, 
angels  might  have  attested — but  the  eloquence  of 
bliss  is  silence. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  I 4m  now  certain  of  at 
least  being  understood ; and  that  in  awakening 
her  comprehension,  I have  roused  my  own.  In 
a word,  I now  feel  I love ! !— for  the  first  time  I 
feel  it.  For  the  first  time  my  heart  is  alive  to  the 
most  profound,  the  most  delicate,  the  most  ardent, 
and  most  refined  of  all  human  passions.  I am 
now  conscious  that  I have  hitherto  mistaken  the 
senses  for  the  heart,  and  the  blandishments  of  a 

5* 


54 


WILD  IRISH  JIRL. 


vitiated  imagination  for  the  pleasures  of  the  soul 
In  short,  I now  feel  myself  in  that  state  of  heath 
tilde,  when  the  fruition  of  all  the  heart’s  purest 
wishes  leaves  me  nothing  to  desire,  and  the  inno- 
cence of  those  wishes  nothing  to  fear.  You  know 
but  little  of  the  sentiment  which  now  pervades 
my  whole  being,  and  blends  with  every  atom  of 
my  frame,  if  you  suppose  I have  formally  told 
Glorvina  I loved  her,  or  that  I appear  even  to  sus- 
pect that  I am  (rapturous  thought !)  beloved  in 
return.  On  the  contrary,  the  same  mysterious 
delicacy,  the  same  delicious  reserve  still  exist. 
Jt  is  a sigh,  a glance,  a broken  sentence,  an  im- 
perceptible motion,  (imperceptible  to  all  eyes  but 
our  own)  that  betrays  us  to  each  other.  Once  I 
used  to  fall  at  the  feet  of  the  “ Cynthia  of  the  mo- 
mentf  avow  my  passion,  and  swear  eternal  truth. 
Now  I make  no  genuflection,  offer  no  vows,  and 
swear  no  oaths  ; and  yet  feel  more  than  ever. — 
More  ! — dare  I then  place  in  the  scale  of  com- 
parison what  I now  feel  with  what  1 ever  felt 
before  ? The  thouoht  is  sacrilege  ! 

o O 

This  child  of  Nature  appears  to  me  each  sue-, 
ceeding  day,  in  a phasis  more  bewitchingly  attrac- 
tive than  the  last.  She  now  feels  her  power  over 
me,  (with  woman’s  intuition^  where  the  heart  is 
in  question!)  and  this  consciousness  gives  to  her 
manners  a certain  roguish  tyranny,  that  renders 
her  the  most  charming  tantalizing  being  in  the 
world.  In  a thousand  little  instances  she  con- 
trives to  teaze  me  ; most,  when  most  she  delights 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


55 


me ! and  takes  no  pains  to  conceal  my  simple  fol- 
ly from  others,  while  she  triumphs  in  it  herself. 
In  short,  she  is  the  last  woman  in  the  world  who 
would  incur  the  risk  of  satiating  him  who  is  best 
in  her  love  ; for  the  variability  of  her  manner,  al- 
ways governed  by  her  ardent,  though  volatilized 
feelings,  keeps  suspense  on  the  eternal  qui  vive  ' 
and  the  sweet  assurance  given  by  the  eyes  one 
moment,  is  destroyed  in  the  next  by  some  arch 
sally  of  the  lip. 

To-day  I met  her  walking  with  the  nurse.  The 
old  woman,  very  properly,  made  a motion  to  re- 
tire as  1 approached.  Glorvina  would  not  suffer 
this,  and  twined  her  arm  round  that  of  her  foster- 
mother.  I was  half  inclined  to  turn  on  my  heel, 
when  a servant  came  running  to  the  nurse  for  the 
keys.  It  was  impossible  to  burst  them  from  her 
side,  and  away  she  hobbled  after  the  barefooted 
laquais.  I looked  reproachfully  at  Glorvina,  but 
her  eyes  were  fixed  on  an  arbutus  tree  rich  in 
blossom. 

“ I wish  I had  that  high  branch,”  said  she,  “ to 
put  in  my  vase.”  In  a moment  I was  climbing 
up  the  tree  like  a great  school-boy,  while  she, 
standing  beneath,  received  the  blossoms  in  her 
extended  drapery  ; and  I was  on  the  point  of  de- 
scending, when  a branch,  lovelier  than  all  I had 
culled,  attracted  my  eye  : this  I intended  to  pre- 
sent in  propria  persona,  that  I might  get  a kiss  of 
the  hand  in  return.  With  my  own  hands  suffi- 
ciently engaged  in  effecting  my  descent,  I held 


56 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


my  Hesperian  branch  in  my  teeth,  and  had  near* 
ly  reached  the  ground,  when  Glorvina  playfully 
approached  her  lovely  mouth  to  snatch  the  prize 
from  mine.  We  were  just  in  contact — 1 suddenly 
let  fall  the  branch — and — Father  John  appeared 
walking  towards  us ; while  Glorvina,  who,  it 
seems,  had  perceived  him  before  she  had  placed 
herself  in  the  way  of  danger,  now  ran  towards 
him,  covered  with  blushes  and  malignant  little 
smiles.  In  short,  she  makes  me  feel  in  a thou- 
sand trivial  instances  the  truth  of  Epictetus’s 
maxim,  that  to  hear  and  forbear,  are  the  powers 
that  constitute  a wise  man:  to  forbear,  alone, 
would,  in  my  opinion,  be  a sufficient  test. 

Adieu,  H.  M. 


LETTER  XXI. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I CANNOT  promise  you  any  more  Irish  history. 
I fear  my  Hiherniana  is  closed,  and  a volume  of 
more  dangerous,  more  delightful  tendency,  draws 
towards  its  bewitching  subject  every  truant 
thought.  To  him  who  is  deep  in  the  Philosopkia 
Amatoria,  every  other  science  is  cold  and  vapid. 

The  oral  legend  of  the  Prince,  and  the  historic 
lore  of  the  priest,  all  go  for  nothing  ! I shako  my 
head,  look  very  wise,  and  appear  to  listen,  while 


THE  WILD  IRI8.n  GIRL. 


57 


my  eves  are  riveted  on  Glorvina — who,  not  un- 
conscious of  the  ardent  gaze,  sweeps  with  a 
feathery  touch  the  chords  of  her  harp,  or  plie? 
her  fairy  wheel  with  double  vigilence.  Mean- 
time, however,  I am  making  a rapid  progress  in 
the  Irish  language,  and  well  I may ; for  besides 
that  I now  listen  to  the  language  of  Ossian  with 
the  same  respect  a Hindoo  would  to  tbe  Sanscrit 
of  the  Bramins,  the  Prince,  the  priest,  and  even 
Glorvina,  contribute  their  exertions  to  my  pro- 
gress. The  other  evening,  as  we  circled  round 
the  evening  fire  in  the  great  hall,  the  Prince  would 
put  my  improvements  to  the  test,  and  taking  down 
a grammar,  he  insisted  upon  my  conjugating  a 
verb.  The  verb  he  chose  was,  “ to  loxte^ — 

“ Glorvina,”  said  he,  seeing  me  hesitate,  “ go 
through  the  verb.” 

O 

Glorvina  had  it  at  her  fingers’  ends  ; and  in  her 
eyes  swam  a thousand  delicious  comments  on  the  - 
text  she  was  expounding. 

The  Prince,  who  is  as  unsuspicious  as  an  infant, 
would  have  us  repeat  it  together,  that  I might 
catch  the  pronunciation  from  her  lip! 

“ 1 love,^^  faintly  articulated  Glorvina. 

“ I love,'^^  I more  faintly  repeated. 

This  was  not  enouoh — the  Prince  would  have 

O 

us  repeat  the  plural  twice  over : and  again  and 
a^ain  we  murmured  tooether — “ we  love 

Heavens  and  earth ! had  you  at  that  moment 
seen  the  preceptress  and  the  pupil  ^ The  attention 
of  the  simple  Prince  was  r’veted  on  Talancy's 


58 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


grammar  : he  grew  peevish  at  what  he  called  om 
stupidity,  and  said  we  knew  nothing  of  the  verb 
to  love,  while  in  fact  we  were  runnino^  throuorh 
ail  its  moods  and  tenses  with  our  eyes  and  looks. 

Good  God  ! to  how  many  delicious  sensations 
is  the  soul  alive,  for  which  there  is  no  possible 
mode  of  expression. 

Adieu. — The  little  post-boy  is  at  my  elbow.  I 
observe  he  goes  more  frequently  to  the  post  than 
usual ; and  one  morning  I perceived  Glorvina 
eagerly  watching  his  return  from  the  summit  of  a 
rock.  Whence  can  this  solicitude  arise  ? Her 
father  may  have  some  correspondence  on  busi- 
ness— she  can  have  none. 


LETTER  XXII. 

ro  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

I 

This  creature  is  deep  in  the  metaphysics  of 
love.  She  is  perpetually  awakening  ardour  by 
restraint,  and  stealing  enjoyment  from  privation. 
She  still  persists  in  bringing  the  priest  with  he.r 
to  the  drawing-desk;  but  it  is  evident  she  does 
not  the  less  enjoy  that  casual  absence  which 
leaves  us  sometimes  alone  ; and  I am  now  be- 
come such  an  epicure  in  sentiment,  that  I scarce- 
ly regret  the  restraint  the  presence  of  the  priest 
imposes  ; sinc<  it  gives  a keener  zest  to  the  tran- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


5h 

sient  minutes  of  felicity  his  absence  bestows — 
even  though  they  are  enjoyed  in  silent  confusion. 
For  nothing  can  be  more  seducing  than  her  looks, 
nothintj  can  be  more  dionified  than  her  manners. 
If,  when  we  are  alone,  I even  offer  to  take  her 
hand,  she  grows  pale,  and  shrinks  from  my  touch. 
Yet  I regret  not  that  careless  confidence  which 
once  prompted  the  innocent  request  that  I would 
guide  her  hand  to  draw  a perpendicular  line. 

“ Solitude  (says  the  Spectator)  with  the  person 
beloved,  even  to  a woman’s  mind,  has  a pleasure 
beyond  all  the  pomp  and  splendour  in  the  world.” 

O ! how  my  heart  subscribes  to  a sentiment  I 
have  so  often  laughed  at,  when  my  ideas  of  plea- 
sure were  very  different  from  what  they  are  at 
present.  I cannot  persuade  myself  that  three 
weeks  have  elapsed  since  my  return  hither;  and 
still  less  am  I willing  to  believe  that  it  is  neces- 
sary I should  return  to  M house.  In  short, 

the  rocks  which  embosom  the  peninsula  of  Inis- 
more  bound  all  my  hopes,  all  my  wishes  ; and  my 
desires,  like  the  radii  of  a circle,  all  point  towards 
one  and  the  same  centre.  This  creature  grows 
on  me  with  boundless  influence  ; her  originality, 
her  genius,  her  sensibility,  her  youth,  and  per- 
son ! In  short,  her  united  charms  in  this  pro- 
found solitude  thus  closely  associated,  is  a spe- 
cies of  witchcraft.  # # # * # 


60 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


It  was  indispensibly  necessary  I should  return 

to  M house,  as  my  father’s  visit  to  Ireland 

is  drawing  near;  andMt  was  requisite  I should 
receive  and  answer  his  letters.  At  last,  there- 
fore, 1 summoned  up  resolution  to  plead  my  for- 
mer excuses  to  the  Prince  for  my  absence ; who 
insisted  on  my  immediate  return — which  I prom- 
ised should  be  in  a day  or  two — while  the  eyes 
of  Glorvina  echoed  her  father’s  commands,  and 
mine  looked  implicit  obedience.  With  what  dif- 
ferent emotions  I now  left  Inismore,  to  those 
which  accompanied  my  last  departure ! My  feel- 
ings were  then  unknown  to  myself — now  I am 
perfectly  aware  of  their  nature. 

I found  M house,  as  usual,  cold,  comfort- 

less, and  desolate — with  a few  wretched-looking 
peasants  working  languidly  about  the  grounds. 
In  short,  everything  breathed  the  deserted  man- 
sion of  an  absentee. 

The  evening  of  my  arrival  I answered  my  fa- 
ther’s letters — one  from  our  pleasant  but  libertine 

friend  D n, — rend  over  yours  three  times 

— went  to  bed — dreamed  of  Glorvina — and  set 
off  for  Inismore  the  next  morning.  I rode  so 
hard  that  I reached  the  castle  about  that  hour 
which  we  usually  devoted  to  the  exertions  of  the 
pencil.  I flew  at  once  to  that  vast  and  gloomy 
room  which  her  presence  alone  cheers  and  illu- 
mines. Her  drawing-desk  lay  open  ; she  seem- 
ed but  just  to  have  risen  from  the  chair  placed 
before  it ; and  her  work-basket  hung  on  its  back 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


61 


Evt  n this  well-known  little  work-basket  is  to  me 
an  object  of  interest.  I kissed  the  muslin  it  con- 
tained ; andj  in  raising  it,  perceived  a small  book 
splendidly  bound  and  gilt.  I took  it  up,  and  read 
on  its  cover,  marked  in  letters  of  gold,  “ Brevaire 
du  Bentimentr 

Impelled  by  the  curiosity  which  this  title 
cited,  I opened  it — and  found  beneath  its  first^ 
two  leaves  several  faded  snowdrops  stained  with 
blood.  Under  them  was  written  in  Glorvina’s 
hand, 

“Prone  to  the  earth  he  bowed  our  pallid  flowers — 

And  caught  the  drops  divine,  the  purple  dyes 

Tinging  the  lustre  of  our  native  hues.” 

A little  lower  in  the  page  was  traced,  “ Culled 
from  the  spot  where  he  fell — April  the  1st,  17 — .” 

Oh  ! how  quickly  my  bounding  heart  told  me 
who  was  that  Ae,  whose  vital  drops  had  stained 
these  treasured  blossoms,  thus  “ tinging  the  lustre 
of  their  native  hues.”  While  the  sweetest  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  convinced  me  that  these  were 
the  identical  flowers  which  Glorvina  had  hallow- 
ed with  a tear  as  she  watched  by  the  couch  of 
him  with  whose  blood  they  were  polluted. 

While  I pressed  this  sweet  testimony  of  a pure 
and  lively  tenderness  to  my  lips,  she  entered.  At 
sight  of  me,  pleasurable  surprise  invested  every 
feature  ; and  the  most  innocent  joy  lit  up  her 
countenance,  as  she  sprang  forward  and  offered 
me  her  hand.  While  I carried  it  eagerly  to  my 
lips,  I pointed  to  the  snowdrops.  Glorvina,  with 

VOL.  II.  6 


62 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  hand  which  was  disengaged,  covered  her 
blushing  face,  and  would  have  fled.  But  the  look 
which  preceded  this  natural  motion  discovered 
the  wounded  feelings  of  a tender  but  proud  heart. 
I felt  the  indelicacy  of  my  conduct,  and,  still 
clasping  her  struggling  hand,  exclaimed — 

“ Forgive,  forgive  the  vain  triumph  of  a being 
intoxicated  by  your  pity^ — transported  by  your 
condescension.” 

“ Triumph  r repeated  Glorvina,  in  an  accent 
tenderly  reproachful,  yet  accompanied  by  a look 
proudly  indignant — “ Triumph 

IIow  I cursed  the  coxcomical  expression  in  my 
heart,  while  I fell  at  her  feet,  and  kissing  the  hem 
of  her  robe,  without  daring  to  touch  the  hand  I 
had  relinquished,  said,  ' 

“ Does  this  look  like  triumph,  (Jlorvina?” 
Glorvina  turned  towards  me  a face  in  which  all 
the  witcheries  of  her  sex  were  blended — play- 
ful fondness,  affected  anger,  animated  tenderness, 
and  soul-dissolving  languishment.  Oh ! she 
should  not  have  looked  thus,  or  I should  have 
been  more  or  less  than  man. 

With  a glance  of  undeniable  supplication,  she 
released  herself  from  that  glowing  fold,  which 
could  have  pressed  her  forever  to  a heart  where 
she  must  forever  reign  unrivalled.  I saw  she 
wished  I should  think  her  very  angry,  and  anoth- 
er pardon  was  to  be  solicited,  for  the  transient 
indulgence  of  that  passionate  impulse  her  own 
seducing  looks  had  called  into  existence.  The 


THE  WILD  IR  SH  GIRL. 


63 


pardon  after  some  little  pouting  playfulness,  was 
granted,  and  I was  suffered  to  lead  her  to  that 
Gothic  sofa  where  our  first  tete-a-tete  had  taken 
place  ; and  partly  by  artifice,  partly  by  entreaty,  I 
drew  from  her  the  little  history  of  the  treasured 
snow-drops,  and  read  from  her  eloquent  eyes 
more  than  her  bashful  lip  would  dare  to  express. 

Thus,  like  the  assymtotes  of  a hyperbola,  with- 
out absolutely  rushing  into  contact,  we  are,  by  a 
sweet  impulsion,  gradually  approximating  closer 
and  closer  towards  each  other. 

Ah ! my  dear  friend,  this  is  the  golden  age  of 
love  ; and  I sometimes  think,  with  the  refined 
Weiland,  in  certain  degree,  with  the  first  kiss — 
mine,  therefore,  is  now  in  its  climacteric. 

The  impetuosity  with  which  I rush  on  every 
subject  that  touches  her,  often  frustrates  the  in- 
tention with  which  I sit  down  to  address  you. 
1 left  this  letter  behind  me  unfinished,  for  the 
purpose  of  filling  it  up,  on  my  return,  with  an- 
swers to  those  I expected  to  receive  from  you. 
The  arguments  which  your  friendly  foresight  and 
prudent  solicitude  have  fuinished  you,  are  pre- 
cisely such  as  the  understanding  cannot  refute, 
nor  the  heart  subscribe  to. 

You  say  my  wife  she  cannot  be — and  my  mis- 
tress ! perish  the  thought ! What ! I repay  the 
generosity  of  the  father  by  the  destruction  of  the 
child  ! I steal  this  angelic  being  from  the  peace- 
ful seimrity  of  her  native  shades,  with  all  her  ar- 
dent, tender  feelings  thick  upon  her : I, 


64 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


* Crop  this  fair  rose,  and  rifle  all  its  sweetness 
No ; you  do  me  but  common  justice  when  you 
say,  that  though  you  have  sometimes  known  me 
affect  the  character  of  a libertine,  yet  never,  even 
for  a moment,  have  you  known  m-e  forfeit  that  of 
a man  of  honour.  I would  not  be  understood  to 
speak  in  the  mere  commonplace  worldly  accepta- 
tion of  the  word,  but  literally,  according  to  the 
text  of  moral  and  divine  laws. 

“ Then,  what,”  you  ask  me,  “ is  the  aim,  the 
object,  in  pursuing  this  ignus  fatuus  of  the  heart 
and  fancy  ?” 

In  a word,  then,  virtue  is  my  object — felicity 
my  aim  ; or,  rather,  I am  lured  towards  the  former 
through  the  medium  of  the  latter.  And  whethei 
the  tie  which  binds  me  at  once  to  moral  and  phy- 
sical good,  is  a fragile  texture  and  transient  ex- 
istence,, or  whether  it  will  become  “ close  twisted 
with  the  fibres  of  the  heart,  and  breaking  break 
it,”  time  only  can  determine — to  time,  there- 
fore, I commit  my  fate  ; but  while  thus  led  by  the 
hand  of  virtue,  I inebriate  at  the  living  spring  of 
bliss  ; 

While  reeling  through  a wilderness  of  joy,’* 
can  you  wonder  that  I fling  off  the  goading  chain 
of  prudence,  and,  in  daring  to  he  free,  at  once  be 
virtuous  and  happy. 

My  father’s  letter  is  brief,  but  pithy.  My  broth- 
er is  married,  and  has  sold  his  name  and  title 
for  a hundred  thousand  pounds  ; and  his  brother 
has  a chance  of  selling  his  happiness  forever  foi 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


65 


something  about  the  same  sum.  And  who  think 
you,  is  to  be  the  purchaser  ? Why  our  old  sport- 
ing friend  D . In  my  last  grousing  visit  at 

his  seat,  you  may  remember  the  jyert  little  girl, 
his  only  daughter,  who,  he  assured  us,  was  that 
day  unhennelled  for  the  first  time,  in  honour  of  our 
success,  and  who  rushed  upon  us  from  the  nursery 
in  all  the  bloom  of  fifteen,  and  all  the  boldness  of 
a hoyden  ; whose  society  was  the  house-keeper, 
and  the  chamber-maid,  whose  ideas  of  pleasure 
extended  no  farther  than  a blind-man’s-buff  in  the 
serv^ant’s  hall,  and  a game  of  hot  cockles  with  the 
butler  and  footman  in  the  pantry.  1 had  the  good 
fortune  to  touch  her  heart  at  cross-purposes,  and 
completely  vanquished  her  affection'  by  a romp- 
ing match  in  the  morning ; and  so  it  seems  the 
fair  susceptible  has  pined  in  thought  ever  since, 
but  not  “let  concealment  prey  on  her  damask 
cheek,”  for  she  told  her  love  to  an  old  maiden 
aunt,  who  told  it  to  another  confidential  friend, 
until  the  whole  neighbourhood  was  full  of  the 
tale  of  the  victim  of  constancy  and  the  fatal  de- 
ceiver. 

The  father,  as  is  usual  in  such  cases,  was  the 
last  to  hear  it ; and  believing  me  to  be  an  excellent 
shot,  and  a keen  sporisman,  all  he  requires  in  a 
son-in-law,  except  a good  family,  he  proposed 
the  match  to  my  father,  who  gladly  embraced  the 
offer,  and  fils  his  letters  with  blossoms,  blushes, 
and  unsophisticated  charms  ; congratulates  me 
on  my  conquest,  and  talks  either  of  recalling  me 
E 6* 


66 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


shortly  to  Engl  and,  or  bringing  the  fciir  fifteen  and 
old  Niinrod  to  Ireland  on  a visit  with  him.  But 
the  former  he  will  not  easily  effect,  and  the  lat- 
ter 1 know  business  will  prevent  for  some  weeks, 
as.  he  writes  that  he  is  still  up  to  his  ears  in  parch- 
ment deeds,  leases,  settlements,  jointures.  Mean 
time. 

“ Song,  beauty,  youth,  love,  virtue,  joy,  this  group 

Of  bright  ideas,  flowers  of  Paradise  as  yet  unlbrfeit,” 

crown  my  golden  hours  of  bliss  ; and  whatever 
may  be  my  destiny,  I will  at  feast  rescue  one 
beam  of  unalloyed  felicity  from  its  impending 
clouds — for,  oh  ! my  good  friend,  there  is  a pro- 
phetic something  which  incessantly  whispers  me, 
that  in  clouds  and  storms  will  the  evening  of  my 
existence  expire. 

Adieu,  H.  M. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

It  is  certain,  that  you  men  of  the  world  are 
nothing  less  than  men  of  pleasure  : — would  you 
taste  it  in  all  its  essence, come  to  Inismore.  Ah! 
no,  pollute  not  with  your  presence  the  sacred  pah 
ladium  of  all  the  primeval  vir-tues  ; and  attempt 
not  to  participate  in  those  pure  joys  of  the  soul 
it  would  be  death  in  me  to  divide  even  with  you 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


67 


Here  Plato  might  enjoy,  and  Epicurus  revel 
here  we  are  taught  to  feel  according  to  the  doc- 
trine  of  the  latter,  that  the  happiness  of  mankind 
consists  in  pleasure,  not  such  as  arises  from  the 
gratification  of  the  senses,  or  the  pursuits  of  vice 
— but  from  the  enjoyments  of  the  mind,  the  plea- 
sures of  the  imagination,  the  affections  of  the  heart, 
and  the  sweets  of  virtue.  And  here  we  learn, 
according  to  the  precepts  of  the  former,  that  the 
summit  of  human  felicity  may  be  attained,  by 
removing  from  the  material,  and  approaching 
ne-arer  to  the  intellectual  world  ; by  curbing  and 
governing  the  passions,  which  are  so  much  of- 
tener  inflamed  by  imaginary  than  real  objects  ; 
and  by  borrowing  from  temperance,  that  zest 
which  can  alone  render  pleasure  forever  poig- 
nant and  forever  new.  Ah ! you  will  say,  like 
other  lovers,  you  now  see  the  moral  as  well  as 
the  natural  world  through  a prism ; but  would 
this  unity  of  pleasure  and  virtue  be  found  in  the 
wilds  of  Inismore,  if  Glorvina  was  no  longer 
there  ? 

I honestly  confess  to  you  I do  not  think  it 
would,  for  where  yet  was  pleasure  ever  found 
where  woman  was  not?  and  when  does  the 
heart  so  warmly  receive  the  pure  impressions  of 
virtue,  as  when  its  essence  is  imbibed  from  wo- 
man’s lip  ? 

My  life  passes  away  here  in  a species  of  de- 
lectability  to  which  I can  give  no  name  ; and 
while,  through  the  veil  of  delicate  reserve  which 


68  THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  < 

the  pure  suggestions  of  the  purest  nature  have 
flung  over  the  manners  of  iny  sweet  Glorvina,  a 
thousand  little  tendernesses  unconsciously  appear. 
Her  amiable  preceptor  clings  to  me  with  a pa- 
rent’s fondness  ; and  her  father’s  increasing  par- 
tiality for  his , hereditary  enemy,  is  visible  in  a 
thousand  instances  ; while  neither  of  these  excel- 
lent, but  inexperienced  men,  suspect  the  secret 
intelligence  which  exists  between  the  younger 
tutor  and  his  lovely  pupil.  As  yet,  indeed,  it  has 
assumed  no  determinate  character.  With  me  it 
is  a delightful  dream,  from  which  I dread  to  be 
awakened,  yet  feel  that  it  is  but  a dream ; while 
she,  bewildered,  amazed  at  those  vague  emotions 
which  throb  impetuously  in  her  unpractised  heart, 
resigns  herself  unconsciously  to  the  sweetest  of 
all  deliriums,  and  makes  no  effort  to  dissolve  the 
vision ! 

If,  in  the  refined  epicurism  of  my  heart,  I care- 
lessly speak  of  my  departure  for  England  in  the 
decline  of  summer,  Glorvina  changes  colour  ; the 
sainted  countenance  of  Father  John  loses  its 
wonted  smile  of  placidity  ; and  thd\  Prince  re- 
plies by  some  peevish  observation  on  the  solitude 
of  their  lives,  and  the  want  of  attraction  at  Inis 
more  to  detain  a man  of  the  world  in  its  domestic 
circle. 

But  he  will  say,  “ it  was  not  always  thus — this 
hall  once  echoed  to  the  sound  of  mirth  and  the 
strain  of  gaiety  ; for  the  day  was,  when  none  went 
sad  of  heart  from  the  castle  of  Inismore  V* 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


6« 


I miicli  fear  that  the  circumstances  of  this  wor- 
tTiy  man  are  greatly  deranged,  though  it  is  evi- 
dent his  pride  would  be  deeply  wounded  if  it  was 
even  suspected.  Father  John,  indeed,  hinted  to 
me,  that  the  Prince  was  a great  agricultural  spec- 
ulator some  few  years  back  ; “ and  even  still”  said 
he,  “likes  to  hold  more  land  in  his  hands  than  he 
is  able  to  manage.” 

I have  observed,  too,  that  the  hall  is  frequently 
crowded  with  importunate  people  whom  the  priest 
seems  endeavouring  to  pacify  in  Irish  ; and  twice, 
as  I passed  the  Prince’s  room  last  week,  an  ill- 
looking  fellow  appeared  at  the  door  whom  Glor- 
vina  was  showing  out.  Her  eyes  were  moist 
with  tears,  and  at  the  sight  of  me  she  deeply 
coloured,  and  hastily  withdrew.  It  is  impossible 
to  describe  my  feelings  at  that  moment ! 

- Notwithstanding,  however,  the  Prince  affects 
an  air  of  grandeur,  and  opulence — he  keeps  a 
kind  of  open  table  in  his  servants’  hall,  where  a 
crowd  of  labourers,  dependants,  and  mendicants 
are  daily  entertained  and  it  is  evident  his  pride 
would  receive  a mortal  stab,  if  he  supposed  that 

- The  kitchen,  or  servants’  hall  of  an  Irish  country  gen- 
tleman, is  open  to  all  whom  distress  may  lead  to  its  door. 
Professed  indolent  mendicants  take  advantage  of  this  in- 
discriminating  hospitality,  enter  without  ceremony,  seat 
themselves  by  the  fire,  and  seldom  (indeed  never)  depart 
with  their  demands  unsatisfied,  by  the  misapplied  benevo- 
lence of  an  old  Irish  custom,  which  in  many  instances 
would  be — “ more  honoured  in  the  breach  than  the  ob« 
gervance.” 


70 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


his  guest,  and  that  guest  an  Englishman,  sus 
pected  the  impoverished  state  of  his  circum 
stances. 

Although  not  a man  of  very  "superior  under- 
standing, yet  he  evidently  possesses  that  innate 
grandeur  of  soul,  which  haughtily  struggles  with 
distress,  and  which  will  neither  yield  to,  nor 
make  terms  with  misfortune  ; and  when,  in  the 
dignity  of  that  pride  which  scorns  revelation  of 
its  woes,  I behold  him  collecting  all  the  forces 
of  his  mind,  and  asserting  a right  to  a better  fate, 
I feel  my  own  character  energize  in  the  contem- 
plation of  his,  and  am  almost  tempted  to  envy 
him  those  trials  which  call  forth  the  latent  pow- 
ers of  human  fortitude  and  human  greatness. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XXIV. 


TO  J,  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 


**  Tous  s’evanouitsoiis  les  cieux, 

Chaqne  instant  varie  a nos  yeux 
Le  tableau  mouvarit  de  la  vie  ” 

Alas  ! that  even  this  solitude  where  all  seems 
**  The  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot.” 
should  be  subject  to  that  mutability  of  fate  which 
governs  the  busiest  haunts  of  man.  Is  it  possible, 
that  among  these  dear  ruins,  where  all  the  “ life 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL, 


71 


of  life”  has  been  restored  to  me,  the  worst  of  hu- 
man pangs  should  assail  my  full  all-conliding 
heart.  And  yet  I am  jealous  only  on  surmise; 
but  who  was  ever  jealous  on  conviction  ; for 
where  is  the  heart  so  weak,  so  mean  as  to  cher- 
ish the  passion  when  betrayed  by  the  object  ? I 
have  already  mentioned  to  you  the  incongruities 
which  so  forcibly  struck  me  in  Glorvina’s  boudoir. 
Since  the  evening,  the  happy  evening  in  which 
I first  visited  it,  I have  often  stolen  thither  when 
I knew  her  elsewhere  engaged,  but  always  found 
it  locked  till  this  morning,  when  I perceived  the 
door  standing  open.  It  seemed  as  though  its 
mistress  had  but  just  left  it,  for  a chair  was  placed 
near  the  window,  which  was  open,  and  her 
book  and  work-basket  lay  on  the  seat.  I me- 
chanically took  up  the  book,  it  was  my  own  Eldi- 
sa,  and  was  marked  with  a slip  of  paper  in  that 
page  where  the  character  of  Wolmar  is  describ- 
ed; 1 read  through  the  passage,  I was  throwing 
it  by,  when  some  writing  on  the  paper  mark 
caught  my  eye ; supposing  it  to  be  Glorvina’s,  I 
endeavoured  to  decypher  the  lines,  and  read  as 
follows  : “ Professions,  my  lovely  friend,  are  for 
the  world.  But  I would  at  least  have  you  be- 
lieve that  my  friendship,  like  gold,  though  not 
sonorous^  is  indestructible.”  This  was  all  I could 
make  out — and  this  I read  a hundred  times — the 
hand-writing  was  a man’s — but  it  was  not  the 
priest’s — it  could  not  be  her  father’s.  And  yet  I 
tliought  the  hand  was  not  entirely  unknown  to 


72 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


me,  though  it  appeared  disguised.  I was  stih 
engaged  in  gazing  on  the  sybil  leaf  when  I heard 
Glorvina  approach.  I never  was  mista^ken  in 
her  little  feefs  light  bound,  for  she  seldom  walks  ; 
and  hastily  replacing  the  book,  1 appeared  deeply 
engaged  in  looking  over  a fine  atlas  that  lay  open 
on  the  table.  She  seemed  surprised  at  my  ap- 
pearance, so  much  so,  that  I felt  the  necessity  for 
apologizing  for  my  intrusion.  But,’^  said  I,  ‘‘  an 
immunity  granted  by  you  is  too  precious  to  be 
neglected,  and  if  I have  not  oftener  availed  my- 
self of  my  valued  privileges,  I assure  you  the 
fault  was  not  mine.” 

Without  noticing  my  inuendo  she  only  bowed 
her  head,  and  asked  me  with  a smile,  what 
favourite  spot  on  the  globe  I was  tracing  with 
such  earnestness  when  her  entrance  had  inter- 
rupted my  geographic  pursuits. 

I placed  my  finger  on  that  point  of  the  north- 
west shores  of  Ireland,  where  we  then  stood, 
and  said  in  the  language  of  St.  Pretfx,  The 
world,  in  my  imagination,  is  divided  into  two 
regions — that  where  she  is — and  that  where  she 
is  not.” 

With  - an  air  of  bewitcning  insinuation,  she 
placed  her  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  with  a faint 
blush  and  a little  smile  shook  her  head,  and  look- 
ed up  in  my  face,  with  a glance  half  incredulous 
— half  tender.  I kissed  the  hand  by  whose 
pressure  I was  thus  honoured,  and  said,  “ pre- 
iessions,  my  lovely  friend,  are  for  the  world,  but 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


73 


i would  at  least  have  you  believe,  that  my  friend- 
ship, like  gold,  though  not  sonorous,  is  inde- 
structible.” 

This  I said,  in  the  irrascibility  of  my  jealous 
heart,  for,  though  too  warm  for  another,  oh!  how 
cold  for  me ! Glorvina  started  as  I spoke,  I 
thought  changed  colour ! while  at  intervals  she 
repeated,  “strange  ! — nor  is  this  the  only  coin- 
cidence!” “ Coincidence  !”  I eagerly  repeated,  but 
she  affected  not  to  hear  me,  and  appeared  busily 
engaged  in  selecting  for  herself  a bouquet  from 
the  flowers  which  filled  one  of  those  vases  I be- 
fore noticed  to  you.  “And  is  that  beautiful  vase,” 
said  I,  “ another  family  antiquity  ? it  looks  as 
though  it  stole  its  elegaiit  form  from  an  Estrucan 
model  : is  this  too  an  effort  of  ancient  Irish  taste  !” 
“ No,”  said  she,  I thought  confusedly,  “ I believe 

ii  came  from  Italy.” 

. “ Has  it  been  long  in  the  possession  of  the  fam- 
ily !”  said  I,  with  persevering  impertinence.  “ It 
was  a present  from  a friend  of  my  father’s,”  she 
replied,  colouring,  “ to  me  !”  The  bell  at  that  mo- 
ment rang  for  breakfast,  away  she  flew,  apparently 
pleased  to  be  released  from  my  importunities. 

“A  friend  of  her  father’s  !”  and  who  can  this 
friend  be,  whose  delicacy  of  judgment  so  nicely 
adapts  the  gifts  to  the  taste  of  her  on  whom  they 
are  lavished.  For,  undoubtedly,  the  same  hand 
that  made  the  offering  of  the  vases,  presented 
also  those  other  portable  elegancies  which  are  so 
strongly  contrasted  by  the  rude  original  furniture 

VOl  IL  7 


74 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


of  the  Boudoir.  The  tasteful  donneur  aud  aiitlior 
of  that  letter  whose  torn  fragment  betrayed  the 
sentiment  of  no  common  mind,  are  cerainly  one 
and  the  s-ame  person.  Yet,  who  visits  the  cas- 
tle ? scarcely  any  one ; the  pride  and  circum- 
stances of  the  Prince  equally  forbid  it.  Some- 
times, though  rarely,  an  old  Milesian  cousin,  or 
poor  relation  will  drop  in,  but  those  of  them  that 
I have  seen,  are  mere  commonplace  people.  1 
have  indeed  heard  the  Prince  speak  of  a cousin 
in  the  Spanish  service,  and  a nephew  in  the  Irish 
brigades,  now  in  Germany.  But  the  cousin  is 
an  old  man,  and  the  nephew  he  has  not  seen 
since  he  was  a child.  Yet,  after  all,  these  pre- 
sents may  have  come  from  one  of  those  relatives  ; 
if  so,  as  Glorvina  has  no  recollection  of  either, 
how  I should  curse  that  jealous  temper  which 
’ has  purchased  for  me  some  moments  of  torturing 
doubts.  1 remember  you  used  often  to  say,  that 
any  woman  could  pique  me-  into  love  by  affecting 
indifference,^and  that  the  native  jealousy  of  my 
disposition  would  always  render  me  the  slave  of 
any  woman  who  knew  how  to  play  upon  my  dom- 
inant passion.  The  fact  is,  when  my  heart  erects 
an  idol  for  its  secret  homage,  it  is  madness  to 
think  that  another  should  even  bow  at  the  shrine 
much  less  that  his  offerings  should  be  propitious- 
Sy  received. 

But  it  is  the  silence  of  Glorvina  on  the  subject 
of  this  generous  friend,  that  distracts  me  ; if,  after 
all — oh  ! it  is  impossible — it  is  sacrilege  against 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


75 


heaven  to  doubt  her!  She  practised  in  decep 
lion  ! she,  whose  every  look,  every  motion  be- 
trays a soul  that  is  all  truth,  innocence,  and  vir- 
tue! I have  endeavoured  to  sound  the  priest  on 
the  subject,  and  affected  to  admire  the^ -vases ; 
repeating  the  same  questions  with  which  I had 
teased  Glorvina.  But  he,  too,  carelessly  replied, 
“ they  were  given  her  by  a friend  of  her  father’s.’’ 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XXV. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Just  as  I had  finished  my  last,  the  Prince  sent 
for  me  to  his  room  ; I found  him  alone,  and  sit- 
ting up  in  his  bed  ! he  only  complained  of  the  ef- 
fects of  years  and  sickness,  but  it  was  evident 
that  some  recent  cause  of  uneasiness  preyed  on 
his  mind.  He  made  me  sit  by  his  bed-side,  and 
said,  that  my  good-nature,  upon  every  occasion, 
induced  him  to  prefer  a request,  he  was  induced 
to  hope  would  not  meet  with  a denial.  I begged  ^ 
' he  would  change  that  request  to  a command,  and 
rely  in  every  instance  on  myreadiness  to  serve  him.. 
He  thanked  me,  and  told  me  in  a few  words,  that 
the  priest  was  going  on  a very  particular,  but  not 
very  pleasing  business  for  him  (the  Prince)  to  the 
north ; that  the  journey  was  long,  and  would  be 
both  solitary  and  tedious  to  his  good  old  friend, 
whose  healtli  I might  ha^e  observed  was  delicate 


76 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


and  piecarious,  except  I had  the  goodness  tocheal 
the  weariness  of  the  journey  by  giving  the  priest 
my  company.  I would  not  make  the  request,” 
he  added,  “ but  that  I think  your  compliance  will 
be  productive  of  pleasure  and  information  to  your- 
self; in  a journey  of  a hundred  miles,  many  new 
sources  of  observation  to  your  inquiring  mind  will 
appear.  Besides,  you  who  seem  to  feel  so  lively 
an  interest  in  all  which  concerns  this  country,  will 
he  glad  to  have  arj  opportunity  of  viewing  the  Irish 
character  in  a new  aspect ; or  rather  of  beholding 
the  Scotch  character  engrafted  upon  ours.”  “ But,” 
said  the  Prince,  with  his  usual  nationality,  “ that 
exotic  branch  is  not  very  distinguishable  from  the 
old  stock.” 

I need  not  tell  you  that  I complied  with  this 
request  with  seeming  readiness,  but  with  real 
reluctance. 

In  the  evening,  as  we  circled  round  the  fire  in 
the  great  hall,  I proposed  to  Father  John  to  ac- 
company him  on  his  journey  the  following  day. 

The  poor  man  was  overjoyed  at  the  offer  while 
Glorvina  betrayed  neither  surprise  nor  regret  at 
my  intention,  but  looked  first  at  her  father,  and 
then  at  me,  with  kindness  and  gratitude. 

Were  my  heart  more  at  ease,  were  my  confi- 
dence in  the  affections  of  Glorvina  something 
stronger,  I should  greatly  relish  this  liitle  tour, 
but  as  it  is,  when  I found  every  thing  arranged 
for  my  departure,  without  the  concurrence  of  my 
own  wishes,  I could  not  check  my  petlishness, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


77 


and  for  want  of  some  other  mode  of  venting  it,  I 
endeavoured  to  ridicule  a m ork  on  the  subject  ot 
ancient  IrLsk  history  which  the  priest  was  read** 
ing  aloud,  while  Glorvina  worked,  and  I was  tri- 
ding  with  my  pencil. 

“ What,  ” said  I,  after  having  interrupted  hims 
in  many  different  passages,  which  I thought  sa- 
voured of  natural  hyperbole,  “ what  can  be  more 
forced  than  the  very  supposition  of  your  partial 
author,  that  Albion^  the  most  ancient  name  of 
Britain,  was  given  it  as  though  it  were  another 
or  second  Ireland,  because  Banba  was  one  of  the- 
ancient  names  of  your  country?” 

‘‘It  may  appear  to  you  a forced  etymology,”’ 
said  the  priest,  “ yet  it  has  the  sanction  of  Cam- 
den, who  first  risked  the  supposition.  But  it  is. 
the  fate  of  our  unhappy  country  to  receive  a» 
little  credit  in  the  present  day,  for  its  former  celeb- 
rity, as  for  its  great  antiquity,*  although  the  for- 

♦ It  has  been  the  fashion  to  throw  odium  on  the  modern- 
Irish,  by  undermining  the  basis  of  their  ancient  history,, 
and  vilifying  their  ancient  national  character.  If  a histori- 
an professes  to  have  acquired  his  information  from  the  re- 
cords of  the  country  whose  history  he  writes,  his  accounts^ 
are  generally  admitted  as  authentic,  as  the  comnnuitarles- 
of  Garcilasso  de  Vega  are  considered  as  the  chief  pillars^ 
of  Peruvian  history,  though  avowed  by  their  author  to 
have  been  compiled  from  the  old  national  ballads  of  the 
country;  yet  the  old  writers  of  Ireland,  (the  Psalter  of 
Cashel  in  particular)  though  they  refer  to  these  ancient  re 
cords  of  tbeir  country,  authenticated  by  existing  mannera 
and  existing  habits,  are  plunged  into  the  oblivion  of  con^ 
temptuous  neglect,  or  read  only  to  be  discredited. 


78 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


mer  is  attested  by  Bede,  and  many  bthei  early 
British  writers,  and  the  latter  is  authenticated  by 
the  testimony  of  the  most  ancient  Greek  authors. 
For  Jervis  is  mentioned  in  the  Argonautica  of  Or- 
jdieus,  long  before  the  name  of  England  is  any- 
where to  be  found  in  Grecian  literature.  And 
surely  it  had  scarcely  been  first  mentioned,  had 
it  not  been  first  known.” 

“ Then  you  really  suppose,”  said  I,  smiling  in- 
credulously, “ we  are  indebted  to  you  for  the 
name  of  our  country?”  ‘‘  1 know,”  said  the  priest, 
returning  my  smile,  “ the  fallacies  in  general  of 
all  etymologists,  but  the  only  part  of  your  island 
anciently  called  by  any  name  that  bore  the  least 
affinity  to  Albion,  was  Scotland,  then  called  Al- 
bin,  a word  of  Irish  etymology,  Albin  signifying 
mountainous,  from  Alb,  a mountain.” 

“ But,  my  dear  friend,”  I replied,  “ admitting 
the  great  antiquity  of  your  country,  allowing  it  to 
be  early  inhabited  by  a lettered  and  civilized 
people,  and  that  it  was  the  Nido  paterno  of  wes- 
tern literature  when  the  rest  of  Europe  was  in- 
volved in  darkness  ; how  is  it  that  so  few  monu- 
ments of  your  ancient  learning  and  genius  remain? 
Where  are  your  manuscripts,  your  records,  your 
annals,  stamped  with  the  seal  of  antiquity  to  be 
found?” 

“ Manuscripts,  annals,  and  records  are  not  the 
treasures  of  a colonized  or  conquered  country,” 
said  the  priest ; “ it  is  always  the  policy  of  the 
conqueror,  or  the  invader,  to  destroy  those  me* 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


79 


menti  of  ancient  national  splendour  which  keep 
alive  the  spirit  of  the  conquered  or  the  invaded 
the  dispersion  at  various  periods!  of  many  of  the 
most  illustrious  Irish  families  into  foreign  coun- 
tries, has  assisted  the  depredations  of  time  and 
policy,  in  the  plunder  of  her  literary  treasures  ; 
many  of  them  are  now  mouldering  in  public  and 
private  libraries  on  the  Continent,  whither  their 
possessors  conveyed  them  from  the  destructiori 
which  civil  war  caTries  with  it,  and  many  of  them 
(even  so  far  back  as  Elizabeth’s  day)  were  con- 
veyed to  Denmark.  The  Danish  monarch  ap- 
plied to  the  English 'court  for  some  learned  men 
to  translate  them,  and  one  Donald  O' Daly  ^ a per- 
son eminently  qualified  for  the  task,  was  actually 
engaged  to  perform  it,  until  the  illiberality  of  the 
English  court  prevented  the  intention  on  the  poor 
plea  of  its  prejudicing  the  English  interest.  I 
know  myself  that  many  of  our  finest  and  most 
valuable  MSS.  are  in  libraries  in  France,  and  have 

* Sir  George  Carevv,  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  was  ac- 
cused of  bribing  the  femily  historian  of  the  M‘Carlhies 
to  convey  to  him  some  curious  MSS.  “ But  what,’^  says 
the  author  of  the  Analect,  ‘ Carevv  did  in  one  province 
[Munster]  Henry  Sidney,  and  his  predecessors  did  all  over 
the  kingdom,  being  charged  to  collect  all  the  manuscripts 
they  could,  that  they  might  effectually  destroy  every  ves- 
tige of  antiquity  and  letters  throughout  the  Kingdom.” 
And  St.  Patrick,  in  his  apostolic  zeal,  committed  to  the 
flames  several  hundred  druidical  volumes. 

t Fourteen  thousand  Irish  took  advantage  of  the  articles 
nf  Limerick,  and  bade  adieu  to  their  native  country  forever 


80 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


heard,  that  not  a few  of  them  enrich  the  Vatican 
at  Rome.”* 

“ But,”  said  I,  “ are  not  many  of  those  MSS. 
supposed  to  be  monkish  impositions?”  “Yes,’* 
replied  the  priest,  “ by  those  who  never  saw  them. 
and  if  they  did,  were  too  ignorant  of  the  Irish 
language  to  judge  of  their  authenticity  by  the  in- 
ternal evidences  they  contain.” 

“ And  if  they  were  the  works  of  monks,”  said 
the  priest,  “ Ireland  was  always  allowed  to  pos- 
sess at  that  era  the  most  devout  and  learned  ec- 
clesiastics in  Europe,  from  which  circumstance 
it  received  its  title  of  Island  of  Saints.  By  them, 
indeed,  many  histories  of  the  ancient  Irish  were 
composed  in  the  early  ages  of  Christianity,  but  it 
was  certainly  from  Pagan  records  and  traditions 
they  received  their  information  ; besides,  I do 
not  think  any  arguments  can  be  advanced  more 
favourable  to  the  histories,  than  that  the  liction  of 

X In  a ronversation  which  passed  in  Cork  between  the 
HtUhor’s  father  and  the  celebrated  Dr.  O’Leary,  the  latter 
said  lie  had  once  intended  to  have  written  a history  of  Ire- 
land. And  added,  “ bnt,  in  truth,  I found,  after  various  re- 
searches. that  I could  not  give  such  a history  as  I would 
wish  should  come  from  my  pen,  without  visiting  the  Con- 
tinent, more  particularly  Rome,  where  alone  the  best 
documents  for  the  history  of  Ireland  are  to  be  had.  But  it 
is  now  too  late  in  the  day  for  me  to  think  of  such  a jour- 
ney or  such  exertions  as  the  task  would  require.’^  “Mr. 
O’Halloran  informs  me  [says  Mr.  Walker,  in  his  Memoirs 
ofthe  Irish  Bards,  p.  141],  that  he  lately  got  in  a collection 
from  Rome,  several  poeu.^  of  the  most  eminent  bards  of 
last  centuries.’^ 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


81 


those  histories  simply  consists  in  ascribing  natu- 
ral phenomena  to  supernatural  agency.” 

“But,”  returned  1,  “granting  that  your  island 
was  the  Athens  of  a certain  age,  how  is  the  bar- 
barity of  the  present  day  to  be  reconciled  with 
the  civilization  of  the  enlightened  past  ?” 

“ When  you  talk  of  our  harharity said  the 
priest,  “ you  do  not  speak  as  you  feel^  but  as  you 
hearP  I blushed  at  this  mild  reproof,  and  said, 
“ what  I novo  feel  for  this  country,  it  would  not 
be  easy  to  express,  but  I have  always  been  taught 
to  look  upon  the  inferior  Irish  as  beings  forming 
an  humbler  link  than  humanity  in  the  chain  of 
nature.”  “ Yes,”  said  the  priest,  “ in  your  coun- 
try it  is  usual  to  attach  to  that  class  of  society  in 
oitrs  a ferocious  disposition  amounting  to  barbar- 
ity ; but  this,  with  other  calumnies,  of  national 
indolence,  and  obstinate  ignorance,  of  want  of 
principle,  and  want  of  faith,  is  unfounded  and  il- 
liberal ‘ cruelty,’  says  Lord  Sheffield,  ‘ is  not 

* Whc»i  nainre  is  wounded  through  all  her  dearest  ties, 
she  must  turn  on  the  hand  that  slabs,  and  endeavour  to 
wrest  the  poig.na,rd  from  the  grasp  that  aims  at  the  life- 
pulse  of  her  heart.  And  this  she  will  do  in  obedience  to 
that  immutable  law,  which  blends  the  instinct  of  self-pre- 
servation with  every  atom  of  imman  existence.  And  for 
this,  in  less  felicitous  times,  when  oppression  and  sedition 
succeeded  alternately  to  each  other,  was  the  name  of  Irish- 
man, blended  witii  the  horrible  epithet  of  cruel  But 
when  the  sword  of  the  oppressor  was  sheathed,  the  spirit 
of  the  oppressed  reposed,,  and  the  opprobrium  it  had 
drawn  down  on  him  was  no  longer  remembered,  until  the 
unhappy  events  of  a late  anarchial  period  [1798]  revived 

F 


82 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL- 


in  the  nature  of  these  people  more  than  of  othei 
men,  for  they  have  many  customs  among  them 
which  disprove  of  unnatural  indolence,  that  they 
are  constitutionally  of  an  active  nature,  and  ca- 
pable of  the  greatest  exertions  ; and  of  as  good 
dispositions  as  any  nation  in  the  satne  state  of  im- 
provement; their  generosity,  hospitality,  and  bra- 
very are  proverbial ; intelligence  and  zeal  in 
whatever  they  undertake  will  never  be  wanting  ; — 
It  has  been  the  fashion  to  judge  of  them  by  their 
outcasts'  ” 

“ It  is  strange  (said  the  Prince,)  that  the  ear- 
liest British  writers  should  be  as  dilTuse  in  the 
praise,  as  the  moderns  are  in  calumniating  our 
unhappy  country.  Once  we  were  everywhere, 
and  by  all,  justly  famed  for  our  patriotism,  ar- 

tlie  faded  characters  in  which  that  opprobrium  had  been 
traced.  The  events  alluded  to  were  the  attrocities  which 
chiefly  occurred  in  the  county  of  Wexford,  and  its  adjoin- 
ing and  confederate  district.  Wexford  is  an  English 
colony,  planted  by  Henry  the  vSecond,  where  scarcely  any 
feature  of  the  original  Irish  character,  or  any  trace  of  the 
Irish  language  is  to  be  found.  While  in  the  barony  of  Forth, 
not  only  the  customs,  mannens,  habits,  and  costume^  of  the 
ancient  British  settlers  still  [irevail,  but  the  ancient 
Celtic  language,  has  been  preserved  with  infinitely  less  cor- 
ruption than  in  any  part  of  Britain,  where  it  has  been  in- 
terwoven with  the  Saxon,  Danish,  and  French  languages. 
In  fact,  here  may  be  found  a remnant  of  an  ancient  British 
colony,  more  pure  and  unmixed  th.in  in  any  other  part  of 
the  world.  And  here  were  committed  those  barbarities, 
which  have  recently  attached  the  epithet  of  cruel  to  the 
oame  of  Irishman ! 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


83 


dour  of  affection,  love  of  letters,  skill  in  arms 
and  arts,  and  refinement  of  manners ; but  no 
sooner  did  there  arise  a connexion  between  us 
and  a sister  country,  than  the  reputed  virtues 
and  well-earned  glory  of  the  Irish  sunk  at  once 
into  oblivion : as  if  (continued  this  enthusiastic 
Milesiaii^  rising  from  his  seat  with  all  his  native 
vehemence,) — as  if  the  moral  world  was  sub- 
ject to  those  convulsions  which  shake  the  natu- 
ral to  its  centre,  burying  by  a single  shock  the 
monumental  splendours  of  countless  ages.  Thus 
it  should  seem,  that  when  the  bosom  of  national 
freedom  was  rent  asunder,  the  national  virtues 
which  derived  their  nutriment  from  its  source 
sunk  into  the  abyss  ; while  on  the  barren  surface 
which  covers  the  wreck  of  Irish  greatness,  the 
hand  of  prejudice  and  illiberality  has  sown  the 
seeds  of  calumny  and  defamation,  to  choke  up 
those  healthful  plants,  indigenous  to  the  soil, 
which  still  raise  their  oft-crushed  heads,  strug- 
gling for  existence,  and  which,  like  the  palm-tree, 
rise,  in  proportion  to  those  efforts  made  to  sup- 
press them.” 

To  repeat  the  words  of  the  Prince  is  to  de- 
prive them  of  half  their  effect : his  great  elo- 
quence lies  in  his  air,  his  gestures,  and  the  for- 
cible expression  of  his  dark-rolling  eye.  He 
sat  down  exhausted  with  the  impetuous  vehe- 
mence with  which  he  had  spoken. 

‘Tf  we  were  to  believe  Dr.  Warner,  however, 
(said  the  priest)  the  modern  Irish  are  a degene- 


B4 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


rated  race,  comparatively  speaking,  for  he  asserts, 
that  even  in  the  days  of  Elizabeth,  ‘ the  old  na- 
tives had  degenerated,  and  i\\dX  the  wai s of  sev- 
eral  centuries  had  reduced  them  to  a state  far  in- 
ferior to  that  in  which  they  were  found  in  the 
days  of  Henry  the  Second.’  But  still,  like  the 
modern  Greeks,  we  perceive  among  them  strong 
traces  of  a free,  a great,  a polished,  and  an  en- 
lightened people.” 

Wearied  by  a conversation  in  which  my  heart 
no  w took  little  interest,  I made  the  palinod  of  my 
prejudices,  and  concluded  by  saying,  “ I perceive 
that  on  this  ground  I am  always  destined  to  be 
vanquished,  yet  always  to  win  by  the  loss,  and 
gain  by  the  defeat ; and  therefore  I ought  not  in 
common  policy  to  cease  to  oppose,  until  noth- 
ing further  can  be  obtained  by  opposition.” 

The  Prince,  who  was  getting  a little  testy  at  my 
heresy  and  .s-cAz.ym,”  seemed  quite  appeased  by  this 
avowal  ; and  the  priest,  who  was  gratified  by  a 
compliment  I had  previously  paid  to  his  talents, 
shook  me  heartily  by  the  hand,  and  said,  I was 
the  most  generous  opponent  he  had  ever  met 
with.  'Fhen  taking  up  his  book,  was  suffered 
to  proceed  in  its  perusal  uninterupted.  During 
the  whole  of  the  evening,  Glorvina  maintained 
an  uninterrupted  silence  ; she  appeared  lost  in 
thought,  and  unmindful  of  our  co-nversation,  while 
her  eyes,  sometimes  turned  on  me,  butoftener  oij 
her  father,  seemed  humid  with  a tear,  as  she  con- 
templated his  lately  much  altered  appearance 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


85 


Yet  when  the  debility  of  the  man  was  for  a 
moment  lost  in  the  energy  of  the  patriot,  I per- 
ceived the  mind  of  the  daiiohter  kindling  at  the 
sacred  fire  which  illumined  the  father’s;  and 
through  the  tear  of  natural  affection  sparkled  the 
bright  beam  of  national  enthusiasm. 

I suspect  that  the  embassy  of  the  good  priest 
is  not  of  the  most  pleasant  nature.  To-night  as 
he  left  me  at  the  door  of  my  room,  he  said 
that  we  had  a long  journey  before  us  ; for  that 
the  house  of  the  nobleman  to  whom  we  are  go- 
ing lay  in  a remote  part  of  the  province  of  Ulster; 
that  he  was  a Scotchman,  and  only  occasionally 
visited  this  country  (where  he  had  an  immense 
property)  to  receive  his  rents.  “ The  Prince 
(said  he)  holds  a large  but  unprofitable  farm 
from  this  Highland  chief,  the  lease  of  which 
he  is  anxious  to  throw  up : that  surly  looking 
fellow  who  dined  with  us  the  other  day,  is  a 
steward ; and  if  the  master  is  as  inexorable  as 
the  servant,  we  shall  undertake  this  journey  to 
very  little  purpose.” 

Adieu. — I endeavour  to  write  and  think  on 
every  subject  but  that  nearest  rny  heart,  yet 
there  Glorvina  and  her  mysterious  friend  still 
awaken  the  throb  of  jealous  doubt  and  anxious 
solicitude.  I shall  drop  this  for  you  in  the  post- 
office  of  the  first  post-town  I pas?  through ; and 
probably  endeavour  to  forget  myself,  and  my  anxi- 
ety to  return  hither,  at  your  expense,  by  writing 
to  you  in  the  course  of  my  journey.  H.  M 

VOL.  II.  8 


86 


THE  WII.D  IRISH  GIRL. 


LETTER  XXVL 

TO  J D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Can  you  recollact  who  was  that  rational 
moderate  youth,  who  exclaimed  in  the  frenzy  of 
passion,  ‘‘  O gods ! annihilate  both  time  and 
space,  and  make  two  lovers  happy.” 

For  my  part,  I should  indeed  wish  the  hours 
annihilated  till  I again  behold  Glorvina ; but  for 
the  space  which  divides  us,  it  was  requisite  I 
should  be  fifty  miles  from  her,  to  be  no  more  en- 
tirely with  her  ; to  appreciate  the  full  value  of 
her  society  ; and  to  learn  the  nature  of  those  wants 
my  heart  must  ever  feel  when  separated  from 
her.  The  priest  and  I arose  this  morning  with 
the  sun.  Our  lovely  hostess  was  ready  at  the 
breakfast-table  to  receive  us.  I was  so  selfish  as 
to  observe  without  regret  the  air  of  langour  that 
invested  her  whole  form,  and  the  heaviness  that 
weighed  down  her  eyelids,  as  though  the  influ- 
ence of  sleep  had  not  renovated  the  lustre  of 
those  downcast  eyes  they  veiled.  Ah!  if  I dared 
believe  that  these  wakeful  hours  were  given  to  me. 
But  I fear  at  that  moment  her  heart  was  more 
occupied  hj^  her  father  than  her  lover : for  I have 
observed,  in  a thousand  instances,  the  interest 
she  takes  in  his  affairs  ; and  indeed  the  priest 
hinted  to  me,  that  her  good  sense  has  frequently 
retrieved  those  circumstances  the  imprudent 


THI  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


87 


speculation^  of  her  father  have  as  constantly 
deranged. 

During  breakfast  she  spoke  but  little,  and  once 
I caught  her  eyes  turned  full  on  me,  with  a glance 
in  which  tenderness,  regret,  and  even  something 
of  despondency  were  mingled.  Glorvina  despond  ! 
So  young,  so  lovely,  so  virtuous,  and  so  highly 
gifted  ! Oh  ! at  that  moment  had  I been  master 
of  worlds  ! but,  dependent  myself  on  another’s 
will,  I could  only  sympathize  in  the  sufferings 
while  I adored  the  sufferer. 

When  we  arose  to  depart,  Glorvina  said,  “If 
you  will  lead  your  horses  I will  walk  to  the  draw- 
bridge with  you.” 

Delighted  at  the  proposal,  we  ordered  our 
horses  to  follow  us  ; and  with  an  arm  of  Glorvina 
drawn  through  either  of  ours,  we  left  the  castle. 
“ This  (said  I,  pressing  the  hand  which  rested  on 
mine,)  is  commencing  a Journey  under  favourable 
auspices.” 

“ God  grant  it  may  be  so,”  said  Glorvina,  fer- 
vently. 

“ Amen  !”  said  the  priest. 

“ Amen  !”  I repeated  ; and  looking  at  Glorvi- 
na, read  all  the  daughter  in  her  eyes. 

“We  shall  sleep  to-night,  (said  the  priest,  en- 
deavouring to  dissipate  the  gloom  which  hung 
over  us  by  indifferent  chit-chat ;)  we  shall  sleep 
to-night  at  the  hospitable  mansion  of  a true-born 
Milesian,  to  whom  I have  the  honour  to  be  dis-- 
tantly  allied ; and  where  you  will  find  the  oldi 


88 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Brehon  law,  which  forbids  that  a sept  should  be 
disappointed  of  the  expected  feast,  was  no  fabri- 
cation of  national  partiality.” 

“ What  then,  (said  I,)  we  shall  not  enjoy  our- 
selves in  all  the  comfortable  unrestrained  freedom 
of  an  innP 

“ We  poor  Irish,  (said  the  priest,)  find  the  un- 
restrained freedom  of  an  inn  not  only  in  the  house 
of  a friend,  but  of  every  acquaintance,  however 
distant ; and  indeed  if  you  are  at  all  known,  you 
may  travel  from  one  end  of  a province  to  another, 
without  entering  a house  of  public  entertain- 
ment ;*  the  host  always  considering  himself  the 
debtor  of  the  guest,  as  though  the  institution  of 
the  Beatag}ts\  were  still  in  being.  And  besides 

* “ Not  only  have  I been  received  with  the  greatest 
kindness,  bull  have  been  provided  with  everything  which 
coidd  promote  the  execution  of  my  plan.  In  taking  the 
circuit  of  Ireland,  I have  been  employed  eight  or  nine 
months ; during  which  time  I have  been  everywhere  re- 
ceived with  a hospitality  which  is  nothing  surprising  in 
Ireland:  that  in  such  a length  of  time  I have  been  but  six 
times  at  an  inn,  will  give  a better  idea  of  this  hospitality 
than  could  be  done  by  the  most  laboured  praise.^^ — M.  de 
Latocknay. 

t In  the  excellent  system  of  the  ancient  Milesian  govern- 
ment, the  people  were  divided  into  classes;  the  Literati 
holding  the  next  rank  to  royalty  itself,  and  the  Beataghs 
the  fourth  ; so  that,  as  in  China,  the  state  was  so  well  regu- 
lated, that  every  one  knew  his  place,  from  the  prince  to 
the  peasant.  “ These  Beataghs  (says  Mr.  O’Halloran) 
were  keepers  of  open  houses  for  strangers,  or  poor  dis- 
tressed natives  ; and  as  honourable  stipends  were  settled  on 
tlhe  Literati,  so  were  particular  tracts  of  laud  on  the  Bear 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


89 


a cordial  welcome  from  my  hospitable  .kinsman, 
1 promise  you  an  introduction  to  his  three  hand- 
some daughters.  So  fortify  your  heart,  for  I warn 
you  it  will  run  some  risk  before  you  return.” 

“ Oh  !”  said  Giorvina,  archly,  “ I dare  say  that, 
like  St.  Paul,  he  will  ‘ count  it  all  joy  to  fall  into 
divers  temptations.’  ” 

“ Or  rather,  (returned  I)  I shall  court  them  like 
the  saints  of  old,  merely  to  prove  my  powers  of 
resistance  ; for  1 bear  a charmed  spell  about  me  , 
and  wuit?  ‘none  of  woman  horn  can  harm  Macbeth.'^  ” 

“And  of  what  nature  is  your  spell?”  said 
Giorvina,  smiling,  while  the  priest  remained  a 
little  behind  us  talking  to  a peasant.  Has  Fa- 
ther 'John  given  you  a gospel  ? or  have  you  got 
an  amulet,  thrice  passed  through  the  thrice  blessed 
girdle  of  St.  Bridget,  our  great  Irish  charm  ?”* 

“ My  charm  (returned  I)  in  some  degree,  cer- 
tainly partakes  of  your  religious  and  national 
superstitions  ; for  since  it  was  presented  me  by 
your  hand,  I could  almost  believe  that  its  very 

taghs,  to  support,  with  proper  munificence,  their  station; 
and  there  are  lands  and  villages  in  many  places  to  this 
day,  which  declare  by  their  names  their  original  appoint- 
ment.’^ , 

* On  St  Bridget’s  day  it  is  usual  for  the  young  people 
to  make  a long  girdle  rope  of  straw,  which  they  carry 
about  to  the  neighbouring  houses,  and  through  it  all  those 
persons  who  have  faith  in  the  charm  pass  nine  times,  ut 
♦ering  at  each  time  a certain  form  of  prayer  in  Irish,  which 
they  thus  conclude  ; “ If  I enter  this  thrice-blessed  girdle 
well,  may  I come  out  of  it  nine  times  better.” 

8* 


'90 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


essf3nce  has  been  changed  by  a touch !”  And  1 
drew  from  my  breast  the  withered  remains  of  my 
once  blooming  rose.  At  that  moment  the  priest 
joined  us;  and  though  Glorvina  was  silent,  I felt 
the  pressure  of  her  arm  more  heavily  on  mine, 
and  saw  her  pass  the  drawbridge  without  a recol- 
lection on  her  part  that  it  was  to  have  been  the 
boundary  of  her  walk.  We  had  not,  however, 
proceeded  many  paces,  when  the  most  'wildly 
mournful  sounds  I ever  heard  rose  on  the  air, 
and  slowly  died  away. 

“ Hark ! (said  Glorvina)  some  one  is  going  to 
‘ that  bourne  from  whence  no  traveller  returns.'^  ’’ 
As  she  spoke  a hundred  v^oices  seemed  to  ascend 
to  the  skies  ; and  as  they  subsided,  a fainter  strain 
lingered  on  the  air,  as  though  this  truly  savage 
choral  sympathy  was  reduced  to  a recitative, 
chaunted  by  female  voices.  All  that  I had  heard 
of  the  Irish  howl  or  funeral  song,  now  rushed  to 
my  recollection;  and  turning  at  that  moment  the 
angle  of  the  mountain  of  Inismore,  I perceived  a 
procession  advancing  towards  a little  cemetery, 
which  lay  by  a narrow  pathway  to  the  left 
of  the  road. 

The  body,  in  a plain  deal  coffin,  covered  with  a 
white  shirt,  was  carried  by  four  men,  immediate- 
ly preceded  by  several  old  women  covered  in 
their  mantles,  and  who  sung  at  intervals  in  a wild 
and  rapid  tone.*  Before  them  walked  a number 

* Speaking  of  tlie  ancient  Irish  funeral,  Mr.  Walker  ob- 
serves i — “Women,  whose  voices  recommended  them. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  91 

of  ymng  persons  of  both  sexes,  each  couple 
holding  by  a white  handkerchief,  and  strewing 
flowers  along  the  path.  An  elderly  woman,  with 
eyes  overflown  with  tears,  dishevelled  hair,  and 
distracted  mien,  followed  the  body,  uttering  many 
passionate  exclamations  in  Irish  ; and  the  proces- 
sion was  filled  up  by  upwards  of  three  hundred 
people  ; the  recitative  of  the  female  choristers 
relieved  at  intervals  by  the  combined  bowlings 
of  the  whole  body.  In  one  of  the  pauses  of  this 
dreadful  death-chorus,  I expressed  to  Glorvina 
my  surprise  at  the  multitude  which  attended  the 
funeral  of  a peasant,  while  we  stood  on  a bank 
as  they  passed  us. 

“ The  lower  order  of  Irish,”  she  returned,  “ en- 
tertain a kind  of  posthumous  pride  respecting 
their  funerals  ; and  from  sentiments  that  I have 
heard  them  express,  I really  believe  there  are 
many  among  them  who  would  prefer  living  ne- 
glected to  the  idea  of  dying  unmourned,  or  un- 
attended, by  a host  to  their  last  home.”  To  my 
astonishment  she  then  descended  the  bank,  and, 

were  taken  from  the  lower  classes  of  life,  and  instructed 
in  music,  and  r,iir  sios,  or  eligiac  measure,  that  they  might 
assist  in  heightening  the  melancholy  which  that  ceremony 
was  calculated  to  inspire.  This  custom  prevailed  among 
tiie  Hebrews,  from  whom  it  is  not  improbable  we  had  it 
immediately.^’ 

Dr.  Campbell  is  of  opinion  that  the  Ululate  or  hullalor 
of  the  choral  burden  of  the  Caoine,  and  the  Greek  word 
of  the  same  import,  have  a strong  affinity  to  each  other.— 
Phil.  Sur.  South  of  Ireland,  Letters  2,  3. 


92 


THE  W LO  IRISH  GIRL. 


accompanied  by  priest,  mingled  with  the 
crowd. 

“ This  will  surprise  you,”  said  Glorvina ; “ but 
it  is  wise  to  com{)ly  with  those  prejudices  which 
we  cannot  vanquisli  x\nd  by  those  poor  people 
it  is  not  only  reckoned  a mark  of  great  disrespect 
not  to  follow  a funeral  (met  by  chance)  a few 
paces,  but  almost  a species  of  impiety.”  . 

“ And  mankind,  you  know,”  added  the  priest, 
“ are  always  more  punctilious  with  respect  to 
ceremonials  than  fundamentals.  However,  you 
should  an  Irish  Roman  Catholic  funeral;  to  a 
Protestant  and  a stranger  it  must  be  a spectacle 
of  some  interest. 

“ With  respect  to  the  attendant  ceremonies  on 
death,”  he  continued,  “ I know  of  no  country  which 
the  Irish  at  present  resemble  but  the  modern 
Greeks.  In  both  countries^when  the  deceased 
dies  unmarried,  the  young  attendants  are  chiefly 
dressed  in  white,  carrying  garlands,  and  strew- 
ing flowers  as  they  proceed  to  the  grave.  Those 
old  women  who  sing  before  the  body  are  profes- 
sional imyromsatori ; they  are  called  Caoiners  or 
Keeners,  from  the  Cnmne  or  death  song,  and  are 
hired  to  celebrate  the  virtues  of  the  deceased. 
Thus  we  find  St.  Chrysostom  censuring  the 
Greeks  of  his  day,  for  the  purchased  lamenta- 
tions and  hireling  mourners  that  attend  their  fu- 
nerals.  And  so  far  hack  with  us  as  in  the  days  of 
druidical  influence,  we  Audit  was  part  of  the  pro- 
fession of  the  bards  to  perform  the  funeral  cere- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


93 


monies,  to  sing  to  their  harps  the  virtues  of  the 
dead,  and  call  on  the  living  to  emulate  their 
deeds.*  This  you  may  remember  as  a custom 
frequently  alluded  to  in  the  poems  of  Ossian.f 
Pray  observe  that  frantic  woman  who  tears  her 

* The  Caoine,  or  funeral  song  was,  composed  by  the 
Filea  of  the  departed,  set  to  music  by  one  of  his  oirfidegh, 
and  sung  over  the  grave  by  the  racasaide,  or  rhapsodist, 
who  accompanied  his  “ song  of  the  tomb”  with  the  mourn- 
ing murmur  of  his  harp,  while  the  inferior  order  of  min- 
strels mingled  their  deep-toned  chorus  with  the  strain  of 
grief,  and  the  sighs  of  lamenting  relatives  breathed  in  uni- 
son to  the  tuneful  sorrow.  Thus  was  “the  stones  of  his 
fame”  raised  over  the  remains  of  the  Irish  chief  with  a 
ceremony  resembling  that  with  which  the  death  of  the 
Trojan  hero  was  lamented, 

“ A melancholy  choir  attend  around. 

With  plaintive  sighs  and  music^s  solemn  sound.” 

But  the  singular  ceremonies  of  the  Irish  funeral,  which  are 
even  still  in  a certain  degree  extant,  may  be  traced  to  a re- 
moter antiquity  than  Grecian  origin,  for  the  pathetic  la- 
mentations of  David  for  the  friend  of  his  soul,  and  the 
conclamatio  breathed  over  the  Phoenician  Dido,  has  no 
faint  coincidence  to  the  Caoine  or  funeral  song  of  the 
Irish. 

t Thus  over  the  tomb  of  Cucullin  vibrated  the  song  of 
the  bard,  “ Blessed  be  thy  soul,  son  of  Semo  ! thou  wert 
mighty  in  battle  ; thy  strength  was  like  the  strength  of  the 
stream,  thy  speed  like  the  speed  of  the  eaglets  wing,  thy 
path  in  battle  was  terrible,  the  steps  of  death  were  behind 
thy  sword  ; blessed  be  thy  soul  son  of  Semo  ! Car-borne 
chief  of  Dunscaith.  The  mighty  were  dispersed  at  Tiino- 
ra — there  is  none  in  Cormac’s  hall.  The  king  mourns  in 
his  youth,  for  he  does  not  behold  thy  coming;  the  sound 
of  thy  shield  is  ceased,  his  foes  are  gathering  around. 
Soft  be  thy  rest  in  thy  cave,  chief  of  Erin’s  wars.” 


04 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


hair  And  beats  her  bosom  : ’tis  the  mother  of 
the  deceased.  She  is  following  her  only  child 
to  an  early  grave  ; and  did  you  understand  the 
nature  of  her  lamentations  you  would  compare 
them  to  the  complaints  of  the  mother  of  Euriales, 
in  the  ^neid  : the  same  passionate  expressions 
of  sorrow,  and  the  same  wild  extravagance  of 
grief.  They  even  still  most  religiously  preserve 
here  that  custom  never  lost  among  the  Greeks, 
of  washing  the  body  before  interment,  and  strew- 
ing it  with  flowers.” 

“ And  have  you  also,”  said  I,  “ the  funeral 
feast,  which  among  the  Greeks  composed  so  ma- 
terial a part  of  the  funeral  ceremonies  ?” 

“ A wake^  as  it  is  called  among  us,”  he  replied, 
“ is  at  once  the  season  of  lamentation  and  sor- 
row, and  of  feasting  and  amusement.  The  im- 
mediate relatives  of  the  deceased  sit  near  the 
body,  devoted  to  all  the  luxury  of  wme,  which  re- 
vives into  the  most  piercing  lamentations  at  the 
entrance  of  every  stranger,  while  the  friends, 
acquaintances,  and  guests  give  themselves  up  to 
a variety  of  amusements  ; feats  of  dexterity  and 
even  some  exquisite  pantomimes  are  performed  ; 
though  in  the  midst  of  all  their  games  should  any 
one  pronounce  an  Ave  Maria,  the  merry  group 
are  in  a moment  on  their  knees  ; and  the  devo- 
tional impulse  being  gratified,  they  recommence 
their  sports  with  new  vigour.  The  wake,  how- 
ever, is  of  short  duration  ; for  here,  as  in  Greece, 
it  is  thought  an  injustice  to  the  dead  to  keep 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


95 


them  long  aboA^e  ground  ; so  that  interment  fol- 
lows deat'li  with  all  possible  expedition.” 

We  had  now  reached  the  burial  ground  ; near 
which  the  funeral  was  met  by  the  parish  priest, 
and  the  procession  went  three  times  round  the 
cemetry,  preceded  by  the  priest,  who  repeated 
the  De  profiindis,  as  did  all  the  congregation. 

“ This  ceremony,”  said  Father  John,  “ is  per- 
.h)rmed  by  us  instead  of  the  funeral  service, 
which  is  denied  to  the  Roman  Catholics.  For 
*i'e  are  not  permitted,  like  the  Protestant  minis- 
ters, to  perform  the  last  solemn  office  for  our 
departed  fellow  creatures.” 

While  he  spoke  we  entered  the  churchyard, 
and  I expressed  my  surprise  to  Glorvina,  who 
seemed  wrapt  in  solemn  meditation,  at  the  singu- 
lar appearance  of  this  rustic  little  cemetery, 
where,  instead  of  the  monumental  marble, 

“ The  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust,” 

an  osier,  twisted  into  the  form  of  a cross,  w^reath- 
ed  with  faded  foliage,  garlands  made  of  the  pliant 
sally,  twined  with  flowers  ; alone  distinguished 
the  “ narrow  house,”  where 

Tile  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep.” 

Without  answering,  she  led  me  gently  forward 
towards  a garland  which  seemed  newly  planted. 
We  paused.  A young  woman  who  had  attended 
the  funeral,  and  withdrawn  from  the  crowd,  ap- 
proached the  garland  at  the  same  moment,  and 


96 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


taking  some  fresh  gaihered  flowers  from  her 
apron,  strewed  them  over  the  new  made  grave, 
then  kneeling  beside  it  wept  and  prayed.”  “ It 
is  the  tomb  of  her  lover,”  said  I. — ‘‘  Of  her 
father  said  Glorvina,  in  a voice  whose  afiect- 
ing  tone  sunk  to  mv  heart,  while  her  eyes,  raised 
to  heaven,  were  sufliised  with  tears.  The  filial 
mourner  now  arose  and  departed,  and  we  ap- 
proached the  simple  shrine  of  her  sorrowing  de- 
votion. Glorvina  took  from  it  a sprig  of  rose- 
mary— its  leaves  were  humid  ! “ It  is  not  all 

dew,”  said  Glorvina,  with  a sad  smile,  while  her 
own  tears  fell  on  it,  and  she  presented  it  to  me. 

“ Then  you  think  me  worthy  of  sharing  in 
these  divine  feelings,”  I exclaimed,  as  1 kissed 
off  the  sacred  drops  ; while  I was  now  confirmed 
in  the  belief  that  the  tenderness,  the  sufferings, 
and  declining  health  of  her  father,  rendered  him 
at  that  moment  the  sole  object  of  her  solicitude 
and  affection.  And  with  .him  only,  could  I, 
without  madness,  share  the  tender,  sensible,  an- 
gelic heart  of  this  sweet  interesting  being. 

Observing  her  emotion  increase,  as  she  stood 
near  the  spot  sacred  to  filial  grief,  I endeavoured 
to  draw  away  her  attention  by  remarking,  that 
almost  every  tomb  had  now  a votarist.  “ It  is  a 
strong  instance,”  sjiid  Glorvina,  “of  the  sensi- 
bility of  the  Irish,  tlmt  they  repair  at  intervals  to 
the  tombs  of  their  decn^ased  friends  to  drop  a ten- 
der tear,  or  heave  a heart-breathed  sigh,  to  the 
memory  of  those  so  lamented  in  death,  so  dear 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


97 


to  them  in  life.  For  my  own  part,  in  the  still- 
ness of  a fine  evening,  I often  wander  towards 
this  solemn  spot,  where  the  flowers  newly  thrown 
on  the  tombs,  and  weeping  with  the  tears  of  de* 
parted  day,  always  speak  to  my  heart  a tale  of 
woe  it  feels  and  understands.  While,  as  the 
breeze  of  evening  mourns  softly  round  me,  I in- 
voluntarily exclaim,  ‘ And  when  I shall  follow 
the  crowd  that  presses  forward  to  eternity,  what 
affectionate  hand  will  scatter  flowers  over  my 
solitary  tomb  ? for  haply,  ere  that  period  arrive, 
my  trembling  hand  shall  have  placed  the  cypress 
on  the  tomb  of  him  who  alone  loved  me  livins^, 
and  w'ould  lament  me  dead.’  ” 

“ Alone^'*  I repeated,  and  pressing  her  hand' to 
my  heart,  inarticulately  added,  “ Oh ! Glorvina, 
did  the  pulses  which  now  thrx)b  against  each 
other,  throb  in  unison,  you  would  understand,  that 
even  love  is  a cold,  inadequate  term  for  the  senti- 
ments you  have  inspired  in  a soul,  which  would 
claim  a closer  kindred  to  yours  than  even  paren- 
tal affinity  can  assert ; if  (though  but  by  a glance) 
yours  would  deign  to  acknowledge  the  sacred 
union.” 

We  were  standing  in  a remote  part  of  the  cem- 
etery, under  the  shade  of  a drooping  cypress — 
we  were  alone — we  were  unobserved  The 
hand  of  Glorvina  was  pressed  to  my  heart,  her 
head  almost  touched  my  shoulder,  her  lips  al- 
most effused  their  balmy  sighs  on  mine.  A 

VOL.  II.  G 9 


98 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


glance  was  all  1 required — a glance  was  all  1 
received. 

In  the  succeeding  moments  I know  not  what 
passed  ; for  an  interval  all  was  delirium.  Glor- 
vina  was  the  first  to  recover  presence  of  mind  ; 
she  released  her  hand  which  was  still  pressed  to 
my  heart,  and,  covered  with  blushes,  advanced  to 
Father  John.  I followed,  and  found  her  with 
her  arm  entwined  in  his,  while  tfiose  eyes,  from 
whose  glance  my  soul  had  lately  quaffed  the  es- 
sence of  life’s  richest  bliss,  were  now  studiously 
turned  from  me  in  love’s  own  downcast  bashful- 
ness. 

The  good  Father  Director  now  took  my  arm  : 
and  we  were  leaving  this  (to  me)  interesting 
spot — when  the  filial  mourner,  who  had  first 
drawn  us  from  his  side,  approached  the  priest, 
and  taking  out  a few  shillings  from  the  corner  of 
her  handkerchief,  offered  them  to  him,  and  spoke 
a few  words  in  Irish  ; the  priest  returned  her  an 
answer  and  her  money  at  the  same  time  : she 
curtseyed  low,  and  departed  in  silent  and  tearful 
emotion.  At  the  same  moment  another  female 
advanced  towards  us,  and  put  a piece  of  silver 
and  a little  fresh  earth  into  the  hand  of  Father 
John ; he  blessed  the  earth  and  returned  the  lit- 
tle offering  with  it.  The  woman  knelt  and  wept, 
and  kissed  his  garment  ; then  addressing  him  in 
Irish,  pointed  to  a poor  old  man,  who,  apparently 
overcome  with  weakness,  was  reposing  on  the 
grass.  Father  John  followed  the  woman,  and 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


99 


advanced  lo  the  old  man,  while  I,  turning  towards 
Glorvina,  demanded  an  explanation  of  this  extra- 
ordinary scene. 

“ The  first  of  these  poor  creatures  (said  she) 
was  offering  the  fruits  of  many  an  hour’s  labour, 
to  have  a mass  said  for  the  soul  of  her  departed 
father,  which  she  firmly  believes  will  shorten  his 
sufferings  in  purgatory : the  last  is  another  in- 
stance of  weeping  humanity  stealing  from  the 
rites  of  superstition  a solace  from  its  woes.  She 
brought  that  earth  to  the  priest,  that  he  might 
bless  it  ere  it  was  flung  into  the  coffin  of  a dear 
friend,  who,  she  says,  died  this  morning  ; for  they 
believe  that  this  consecrated  earth  is  a substitute 
for  those  religious  rites  which  are  denied  them 
on  this  awful  occasion.  And  though  these 
tender  cares  of  mourning  affection  may  originate 
in  error,  who  would  not  pardon  the  illusion  that 
soothes  the  sufferings  of  a breaking  heart  ? 
Alas ! I could  almost  envy  these  ignorant  preju- 
dices, which  lead  their  possessors  to  believe, 
that  by  restraining  their  own  enjoyments  in  this 
world,  they  can  alleviate  the  sufferings,  or  pur- 
ffiase  the  felicity  of  the  other  for  the  objects  of 
their  tenderness  ,and  regret.  Oh  ! that  1 could 
thus  believe !” 

“ Then  you  do  not,  (said  I,  looking  earnestly 
at  her,)  you  do  not  receive  all  the  doctrines  of  your 
church  as  infallible  ?” 

Glorvina  approached  something  closer  towards 
»ne,  and  in  a few  words  convinced  me,  that  on 


100 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  subject  of  religion,  as  upon  every  other,  hex 
strong  mind  discovered  itself  to  be  an  emanation 
of  that  divine  intelligence,  which  her  pure  soul 
worships  “ in  spirit  and  in  truth,” 

“ The  bright  elnilgence  of  bright  essence  uncreate.” 

When  she  observed  my  surprise  and  delight 
she  added,  “ believe  me,  my  dear  friend,  the  age 
in  which  religious  error  held  her  empire  undis- 
puted is  gone  by.  The  human  mind,  however 
slow,  however  opposed  its  progress,  is  still,  by  a 
divine  and  invariable  law,  propelled  towards 
truth,  and  must  finally  attain  that  goal  which 
"reason  has  erected  in  every  breast.  Of  the  many 
who  are  the  inheritors  of  our  persuasion,  all  are 
not  devoted  to  its  errors,  or  influenced  by  its  su- 
perstitions. If  its  professors  are  coalesced,  it  is 
in  the  sympathy  of  their  destinies,  not  in  the  dog- 
mas of  their  belief.  If  they  are  allied,  it  is  by 
the  tie  of  temporal  interest,  not  by  the  bond  of 
speculative  opinion  ; they  are  united  as  men^  not 
as  sectaries  ; and  once  incorporated  in  the  great 
mass  of  general  society,  their  feelings  will  be- 
come diflusive  as  their  interests ; their  affec- 
tions, like  their  privileges,  will  be  in  common  ; 
the  limited  throb  with  which  their  hearts  now 
beat  towards  each  other,  under  the  influence  of 
a kindred  fate,  will  then  be  animated  to  the  no- 
bler pulsation  of  universal  philanthropy ; and,  as 
the  acknowledged  members  of  the  first  of  all  lui- 
man  communities  they  will  forget  they  had  over 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


101 


been  the  individual  adherents  of  an  alienated 
bod)*  ” 

The  priest  now  returned  to  ns,  and  was  follow- 
ed by  the  multitude,  who  crowded  round  this 
venerable  and  adored  pastor  : some  to  obtain  his 
benediction  for  themselves,  others  his  prayers  for 
their  friends,  and  all  his  advice  or  notice  : while 
Glorvina,  whom  they  had  not  at  first  perceived, 
stood  like  an  idol  in  the  midst  of  them,  receiving 
that  adoration  which  the  admiring  gaze  of  some, 
and  the  adulatory  exclamations  of  others,  offered 
to  her  virtues  and  her  charms.  While  those  per- 
sonally known  to  her  she  addressed  with  her 
usually  winning  sweetness  in  their  native  lan- 
guage, I am  sure  that  there  was  not  an  individual 
among  this  crowd  of  ardent  and  affectionate  peo- 
ple, that  would  not  risk  their  lives  “ to  avenge  a 
look  that  threatened  her  with  danger.” 

Our  horses  now  coming  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
cemetry,  we  insisted  on  walking  back  as  far  as 
the  drawbridge  with  Glorvina.  When  we  reach- 
ed  it,  the  priest  saluted  her  cheek  with  paternal 
freedom,  and  gave  her  'his  blessing,  while  I 
was  put  off  with  an  offer  of  the  hand ; but  when, 
for  the  first  time,  I felt  its  soft  clasp  return  the 
pressure  of  mine,  I no  longer  envied  the  priest 
his  cold  salute ; for  oh  ! cold  is  every  enjoyment 
which  is  unreciprocated.  Reverberated  bliss 
alone  can  touch  the  heart. 

When  we  had  parted  with  Glorvina,  and  caught 
a last  view  of  her  receding  figure,  we  mounted 

9# 


102 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


our  horses  aud  proceeded  a cousiderable  way  in 
silence.  The  morning  though  fine  was  gloomy  ; 
and  though  the  sun  was  scarcely  an  hour  high, 
we  were  met  by  innumerable  groups  of  peasan- 
try of  both  sexes,  laden  with  their  implements  of 
husbandry,  and  already  beginning  the  labours  of 
the  day.  1 expressed  my  surprise  at  observing 
almost  as  manv  women  as  men  workinor  in  the 

J O 

fields  and  bogs.  “Yes,”  said  the  priest,  “toil 
is  here  shared  in  common  between  the  sexes,  the 
women  as  well  as  the  men  cut  the  turf,  plant  the 
potatoes,  and  even  assist  to  cultivate  the  land ; 
both  rise  with  the  sun  to  their  daily  labour ; but 
his  repose  brings  not  theirs;  for,  after  having 
worked  all  day  for  a very  trivial  remuneration, 
(as  nothing  here  is  rated  lower  than  human  la- 
bour,) they  endeavour  to  snatch  a beam  from  re- 
treating twilight,  by  which  they  labour  in  that 
little  spot  of  ground,  which  is  probably  the  sole 
support  of  a numerous  family.” 

“ And  yet,”  said  I,  “ idleness  is  the  chief  vice 
laid  to  the  account  of  your  peasantry.” 

“ It  is  certain,”  returned  he,  “ that  there  is  not, 
generally  speaking,  that  active  spirit  of  industry 
among  the  inferior  orders  here,  which  distin- 
guishes the  same  rank  in  England.  But  neither 
have  they  the  same  encouragement  to  awaken 
their  exertions.  ‘ The  laziness  of  the  Irish,’  says 
Sir  William  Petty,  ‘ seems  rather  to  proceed  from 
want  of  employment  and  encouragement  to  work, 
(ban  the  constitution  of  their  bodies.’  An  intelli- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


103 


gent  and  liberal  countryman  of  yours,  Mr.  Young, 
the  celebrated  traveller,  is  persuaded  that,  circum- 
stances considered,  the  Irish  do  not  in  reality  de- 
serve the  character  of  indolence  ; and  relates  a 
very  extraordinary  proof  of  their  great  industry 
and  exertion  in  their  method  of  procuring  lime 
for  manure,  which  the  mountaineers  bring  on  the 
backs  of  their  little  horses  many  miles  distance, 
to  the  foot  of  the  steepest  acclivities,  and  from 
thence  to  the  summit  on  their  own  shoulders 
while  they  pay  a considerable  rent  for  liberty  to 
cultivate  a barren,  waste,  and  rigid  soil.  In  short, 
there  is  not  in  creation  a more  laborious  animal 
than  an  Irish  peasant,  with  less  stimulus  to  ex- 
ertion, or  less  reward  to  crown  his  toil.  He  is 
indeed,  in  many  instances,  the  mere  creature  of 
the  soil,  and  works  independent  of  that  hope 
which  is  the  best  stimulus  to  every  human  effort, 
the  hope  of  reward.  And  yet  it  is  not  rare  to 
find  among  these  oft  misguided  beings,  some  who 
really  believe  themselves  the  hereditary  proprie- 
tors of  the  soil  they  cultivate.” 

“ But  surely,”  said  I,  “ the  most  ignorant 
among  them  must  be  well  aware  that  all  could  not 
have  been  proprietors.” 

“ The  fact  is,”  said  the  priest,  “ the  followers 
of  many  a great  family  having  accidentally  adopt- 
ed the  name  of  their  chiefs,  that  name  has  de- 
scended to  their  progeny,  who  now  associate  to 
the  name  an  erroneous  claim  on  the  confiscated 
property  of  those  to  svhom  their  progenitors  were 


104 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


but  v assals  or  dependants.  And  this  false,  but 
strong  rooted  opinion,  co-operating  with  their 
naturally  active  and  impetuous  characters,  ren- 
ders them  alive  to  every  enterprise,  and  open  to 
the  impositions  of  the  artful  or  ambitious.  But  a 
brave,  though  misguided  people,  are  not  to  be 
dragooned  out  of  a train  of  ancient  prejudices, 
nurtured  by  fancied  interest  and  real  ambition, 
and  confirmed  by  ignorance,  which  those  who 
deride  have  made  no  effort  to  dispel.  It  is  not 
by  physical  force,  but  moral  influence,  the  illusion 
is  to  be  dissolved.  The  darkness  of  ignorance 
must  be  dissipated  before  the  light  of  truth  can 
be  admitted ; and  though  an  Irishman  may  be 
argued  out  of  an  error,  it  has  been  long  proved  he 
will  never  be  forced.  His  understanding  may  be 
convinced,  but  his  spirit  will  never  be  subdued. 
He  may  culminate  to  the  meridian  of  loyalty*  or 
truth  by  the  influence  of  kindness,  or  the  convic- 
tions of  reason,  but  he  will  never  be  forced  to- 
wards the  one,  nor  oppressed  into  the  other  by 
the  lash  of  power,  or  ‘ the  insolence  of  office.’ 

“ This  has  been  strongly  evinced  by  the  attach- 
ment of  the  Irish  to  the  House  of  Stuart,  by 
whom  they  have  always  been  so  cruelly,  so  un- 

* Speaking  of  the  people  of  Ireland,  Lord  Minto  thu§ 
expresses  himself  ‘ In  these  (the  Irish)  we  have  witness- 
ed exertions  of  courage,  activity,  perseverance,  and  spirit, 
as  well  as  fidelity  and  /.ononr  in  fulfillingthe  engagements 
of  their  connexion  with  us,  and  the  'Protection  and  defence 
of  tlieir  own  country,  which  clnillenges  the  thanks  of  Gro^ 
Britain,  and  the  approbation  of  the  world.” 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


105 


gratefully  treated.  For  what  the  coercive  mea^ 
sures  of  four  hundred  years  could  not  effect,  the 
accession  of  one  prince  to  the  throne  accomplish- 
ed. Until  that  period,  the  unconquered  Irish, 
harassing  and  harassed,  struggled  for  that  liberty 
which  they  at  interval's  obtained,  but  never  were 
permitted  to  enjoy.  Yet  the  moment  a prince  of 
the  royal  line  of  Milesius  placed  the  British 
diadem  on  his  brow,  the  sword  of  resistance  was 
sheathed,  and  those  principles  which  force  could 
not  vanquish,  yielded  to  the  mild  empire  of  na- 
tional and  hereditary  affection  : the  Irish  of  Eng- 
lish origin  from  natural  tenderness,  and  those  of 
the  true  old  stock,  from  the  conviction  that  they 
were  then  governed  by  a Prince  of  their  own 
blood.  Nor  is  it  now  unknown  to  them,  that  in 
the  veins  of  his  present  majesty,  and  his  ances- 
cestors,  from  James  the  First,  flows  the  royal 
blood  of  the  three  kingdoms  united.” 

“ I am  delighted  to  find,”  said  I,  “ the  lower 
ranks  of  a country,  to  which  I am  now  so  en- 
deared, thus  rescued  from  the  obloquy  thrown  on 
them  by  prejudiced  illiberality ; and  from  what 
you  have  said,  and  indeed  from  what  I have  my- 
self observed,  I am  convinced,  that  were  endea- 
vours for  their  improvement  more  strictly  promo- 
ted, and  their  respective  duties  obviously  made 
clear,  their  true  interests  fully  represented  by 
reason  and  common  sense,  and  their  unhappy 
situations  ameliorated  by  justice  and  humanity, 
they  would  be  a people  as  happy,  contented  and 


106 


THIi  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


prosperous,  in  a political  sense,  as  in  a natural 
and  a national  or  e.  They  are  brave,  hospitable, 
liberal  and  ingenious.” 

We  now  continued  to  proceed  through  a coun- 
try rich  in  all  the  boundless  extravagance  of  pic- 
turesque beauty,  where  Nature’s  sublimest  fea- 
tures everywhere  present  themselves,  carelessly 
disposed  in  wild  magnificence;  unimproved,  and 
indeed,  almost  unimproveable  by  art.  The  far- 
stretched  ocean,  mountains  of  Alpine  magnitude, 
heaths  of  boundless  desolation,  vales  of  romantic 
loveliness,  navigable  rivers,  and  extensive  lakes, 
alternately  succeeding  to  each  other,  while  the 
ruins  of  an  ancient  castle,  or  the  mouldering  re- 
mains of  a desolated  abbey,  gave  a moral  inter- 
est to  the  pleasure  derived  from  the  contemplation 
of  Nature  in  her  happiest  and  most  varied  aspect. 

“ Is  it  not  extraordinary,”  said  I,  as  we  loitered 
over  the  ruins  of  an  abbey,  “ that  though  your 
country  was  so  long  before  the  introduction  of 
Christianity  inhabited  by  a learned  and  ingenious 
people,  yet,  that  among  your  Gothic  ruins,  no 
traces  of  a more  ancient  and  splendid  architec- 
ture are  to  be  discovered.  From  the  ideas  I 
have  formed  of  the  primeval  grandeur  of  Ireland, 
I should  almost  expect  to  see  a Balbec  or  Pal- 
myra arising  amidst  these  stupendous  mountains 
and  picturesque  scenes.” 

‘‘  My  dear  sir,”  he  replied,  “ a country  may  be 
civilized,  enlightened,  and  even  learned  and  in- 
genious, without  attaining  to  any  considerable 


THE  WILD  TRISH  URL. 


10^ 


perfection  in  those  arts,  which  give  to  posterity 
sensible  memorials  of  its  past  splendour.  The 
ancien'c  Irish,  like  the  modern,  had  more  soul^ 
more  genius  than  worldly  prudence,  or  cautious, 
calculating  forethought.  The  feats  of  the  hero 
engrossed  them  more  than  the  exertions  of  the 
mechanist;  works  of  imagination  seduced  them 
from  pursuing  works  of  utility.  With  an  enthu- 
siasm bordering  on  a species  of  mania,  they  were 
devoted  to  poetry  and  music  ; and  to  ‘ Wake  the 
soul  of  song'  was  to  them  an  object  of  more  inter- 
esting importance,  than  to  raise  that  edifice  which 
would  betray  to  posterity  their  ancient  grandeur 
Besides,  at  that  period  to  which  you  allude,  the 
Irish  w/ere  in  that  era  of  society,  when  the  iron 
age  was  yet  distant,  and  the  artist  confined  his 
skill  to  the  elegant  workmanship  of  gold  and 
brass,  which  is  ascertained  by  the  number  of  war- 
like implements  and  beautiful  ornaments  of  dress 
of  those  metals,  exquisitely  worked,  which  are 
still  frequently  found  in  the  bogs  of  Ireland.” 

If,  however,  (said  I)  there  are  no  remnants 
of  a Lauren tinum,  or  Tusculum  to  be  discovered, 
I perceive  that  at  every  ten  or  twelve  miles,  in 
the  fattest  of  the  land,  the  ruins  of  an  abbey  and 
its  granaries  are  discern  able.” 

“ Why,  (returned  the  priest,  laughing)  you 
would  not  have  the  good  father  abbots  advise  the 
dying,  but  generous  sinner,  to  leave  the  worst  of 
his  lands  to  God ! that  would  be  sacrilege — but 
besides  the  voluntary  donation  of  estates  from 


108 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


rich  j)enitents,  the  regular  aionks  of  Ireland  had 
landed  properties  attached  to  their  convents. 
Someiimes  they  possessed  immense  tracts  of  a 
country,  fr-ora  wb.ch  the  officiating  clergy  seldom 
or  never  derived  any  benefit  ; and,  I believe,  that 
many,  if  not  mast  of  the  bishops^  leases  now'  ex- 
isting, are  the  confiscated  revenues  of  these 
ruined  abbeys.” 

“ So,  (said  I)  after  all,  it  is  only  a transfer  of 
property  from  one  opulent  ecclesiastic  to  another 
and  the  great  difference  between  the  luxurious 
abbot  of  other  times,  and  the  rich  church  digni- 
tary of  the  present,  lies  in  a few  speculative 
thv^ories,  which,  whether  they  are  or  are  not  con- 
sonant to  reason  and  common  sense,  hatfe  cer- 
tainly no  connexion  with  true  religion  or  true 
morality.  While  the  bishopricks  now,  like  the 
abbeys  of  old,  are  estimated  rather  by  the  profit 
gained  to  the  temporal,  than  the  harvest  reaped 
to  the  heavenly  Lord.  However,  I suppose,  they 
borrow  a sanction  from  the  perversion  of  scrip- 
tural aulhorky,  and  quote  the  Jewish  law,  not 
intended  for  the  benefit  of  individuals  to  the 
detriment  of  a whole  body,  but  which  extended 
to  the  whole  tribe  of  Levi,  and,  doubtlessly, 
strengthen  it  by  a sentiment  of  St.  Paul : ‘ If  we 
sow  unto  you  spiritual  things,  is  it  not  just  we 

♦For  instaiice,  the  Abbey  of  Raphoe  was  founded  by 
St.  Colnmkill,  who  was  succeeded  in  it  by  St.  Eaiioii.  The 
first  Bisliop  of  llaplioe  having  converted  the  abbey  into  a 
cathedral  see.  It  is  now  a protestant  bishoprick. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


109 


reap  your  carnal  V Sic  It  is,  however,  lucky  for 
your  country,  that  your  abbots  are  n-ot  as  numer- 
ous in  the  present  day  as  formerly.” 

“ Numerous,  indeed,  as  you  perceive  (said  the 
priest)  by  these  ruins  ; for  we  are  told  in  the 
Life  of  St.  Ramoloi,  that  there  were  a greater 
number  of  monks  and  superb  monasteries  in  Ire- 
land than  in  any  other  part  of  Europe.  St.  Co- 
lumkill  and  his  contemporaries  alone  erected  in 
this  kingdom  upwards  of  two  hundred  abbeys, 
if  their  biographers  are  to  be  credited  ; and  the 
luxury  of  their  governors  kept  pace  with  their 
power  and  number. 

“ In  the  abbey  of  Enis,  a sanctuary  was  provi- 
ded for  the  cowls  of  the  friars  and  the  veils  of 
the  nuns,  which  were  costly  and  beautifully 
wrought.  We  read  that  (knights  excepted)  the 
prelates  only  were  allowed  to  have  gold  bridles 
and  harness  ; and  that  among  the  rich  presents 
bestowed  by  Bishop  Snell,  in  1146,  on  a cathe- 
dral, were  gloves,  pontificals,  sandals,  and  silken 
robes,  interwoven  with  golden  spots,  and  adorned 
with  precious  stones. 

“ There  is  a monument  of  monkish  luxury  still 
remaining  among  the  interesting  ruins  of  Sligo 
abbey.  This  noble  edifice  stands  in  the  midst 
of  a rich  and  beautiful  scenery,  on  the  banks  of 
a river,  near  which  is  a spot  still  shown,  where, 
as  tradition  runs,  a box  or  weir  was  placed,  in 
which  the  fish  casually  entered,  and  which  con- 
tained a spring,  that  communicated  by  a,  cwiii 

VOL.  11.  10 


no 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


with  a bell  hung  in  the  refectory.  The  weight 
of  the  fish  pressed  down  the  spring ; the  cord 
vibrated  ; the  bell  rung ; and  the  unfortunate  cap- 
tive thus  taken  suffered  martyrdom,  by  being 
placed  on  a fire  alive.” 

“ And  was  served  up,”  said  I,  “I  suppose  on 
a fast  day,  to  the  abstemious  monks,  who  would, 
however,  have  looked  upon  a morsel  of  flesh 
meat  thrown  in  this  way,  as  a lure  to  eternal 
perdition.” 

Already  weary  of  a conversation  in  which  my 
heart  took  little  interest,  I now  suffered  it  to  die 
away;  and  while  Father  John  began  a parley 
with  a traveller  who  socially  joined  us,  *1  gave  up 
my  whole  soul  to  love  and  to  Glorvina. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening  we  arrived  at  the 
house  of  our  destined  host.  Although  it  was  late, 
the  family  had  not  yet  gone  to  dinner,  as  the  ser- 
vant who  took  our  horses  informed  us,  that  his 
master  had  but  that  moment  returned  from  a fair. 
We  had  scarcely  reached  the  hall,  when,  the  re- 
port of  our  arrival  having  preceded  our  appearance, 
the  whole  family  rushed  out  to  receive  us.  What 
a group  ! — the  father  looked  like  the  very  Genius 
of  Hospitality,  the  mother  like  the  personified 
spirit  of  a cordial  welcome  ; three  laughing  Hebe 
daughters  ; two  fine  young  fellows  supporting  an 
aged  gra.ndsire,  a very  Silenus  in  appearance, 
and  a pretty  demure  little  governess,  with  a smile 
and  a hand  as  ready  as  the  others. 

The  priest^  according  to  the  good  old  Iiiih 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  Hi 

fashion,  saluted  the  cheeks  of  the  ladies,  and  had 
his  hands  nearly  shaken  off  by  the  men  ; while 
I was  received  with  all  the  cordiality  that  could 
be  lavished  on  a friend,  and  all  the  politeness 
that  could  be  paid  to  a stranger.  A welcome 
shone  in  every  eye ; ten  thousand  welcomes 
echoed  from  every  lip  ; and  the  arrival  of  the  un- 
expected guests  seemed  a festival  of  the  social 
feelings  to  the  whole  warm-hearted  family.  If 
this  is  a true  specimen  of  the  first  rites  of  hospi- 
tality, among  the  independent  country  gentlemen 
of  Ireland f it  is  to  me  the  most  captivating  of  all 
possible  ceremonies. 

When  the  first  interchange  of  our  courtesies 
had  passed  on  both  sides,  we  were  conducted  to 
the  refreshing  comforts  of  a dressing-room  ; but 
the  domestics  were  not  suffered  to  interfere,  all 
were  in  fact  our  servants. 

The  plenteous  dinner  was  composed  of  every 
luxury  the  season  afforded  ; though  only  supplied 
by  the  demesne  of  our  host  and  the  neighbouring 
sea-coast,  and  though  served  up  in  a style  of  per- 
fect elegance,  was  yet  so  abundant,  so  over  plen- 
teous, that,  compared  to  the  compact  neatness, 
and  simple  sufficiency  of  Knglish  fare  in  the  same 
rank  of  life,  it  miorht  have  been  thouc^ht  to  have 
been  “ more  than  hospitably  good.”  But  to  my 
surprise,  and  indeed,  not  much  to  my  satisfaction, 

* To  those  who  have  witnessed  [as  I so  often  have]  the 
celebration  of  these  endearing  rites,  this  picture  will  ap’ 
pear  but  a very  cold  and  languid  sketch. 


112 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


during  dinner  the  door  was  left  open  for  the  bene- 
lit  of  receiving  the  combined  efforts  of  a very 
indifferent  fiddler  and  a tolerable  piper,  who, 
however,  seemed  to  hold  the  life  and  spirits  of 
the  family  in  their  keeping.  The  ladies  left  us 
early  after  the  cloth  was  removed  ; and  though 
besides  the  family  there  were  three  strange  gen- 
tlemen, and  that  the  table  was  covered  with  ex- 
cellent wines,  yet  conversation  circulated  with 
much  more  freedom  than  the  bottle  ; every  one 
did  as  he  pleased,  and  the  ease  of  the  guest 
seemed  the  pleasure  of  the  host. 

For  my  part,  I rose  in  less  than  an  hour  after 
the  retreat  of  the  ladies,  and  followed  them  to 
the  drawing-room.  I found  them  all  employed ; 
one  at  the  piano,  another  at  her  needle-work,  a 
third  reading ; mamma  at  her  knitting,  and  the 
pretty  little  duenna  copying  out  music. 

They  received  me  as  an  old  acquaintance,  and 
complimented  me  on  my  temperance  in  so  soon 
retiring  from  the  gentlemen,  for  which  I assured 
them  they  had  all  the  credit.  It  is  certain  tha* 
the  frank  and  open  ingenuousness  of  an  Irish- 
woman’s manners,  forms  a strong  contrast  to  that 
placid,  but  distant  reserve  which  characterises 
the  address  of  my  own  charming  countrywomen. 
For  my  part,  since  I have  Glorvina,  I shall  never 
again  endure  that  perpetuity  of  air,  look,  and  ad- 
dress, which  those  who  mistake  formality  for 
good-breeding  are  apt  to  assume.  Manners,  like 
the  graduated  scale  of  the  thermometer,  should 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


113 


betray,  by  degrees,  the  expansion  oi  contraction 
of  the  feeling,  as  they  are  warmed  by  emotion  or 
chilled  by  indifference.  They  should  brrathe  the 
soul  in  order  to  win  it. 

Nothing  could  be  more  animated  yet  more 
modest  than  the  manners  of  these  charming  girls, 
nor  should  I require  any  stronger  proof  of  that 
pure  and  exquisite  chastity  of  character  which, 
from  the  earliest  period,  has  distinguished  the 
women  of  this  country,  than  that  ingenuous  can- 
dour and  enchanting  frankness  which  accompa- 
nies their  every  look  and  word. 

The  soul  as  sure  to  be  admired  as  seen,  ' 

Boldly  steps  forth,  nor  keeps  a thought  within. 

But,  although  the  Miss  O’D s are  very 

charming  girls,  although  their  mother  seems  a 
very  rational  and  amiable  being,  and  although 
their  governess  appears  to  be  a young  woman  of 
distinguished  education  and  considerable  talent ; 
yet  I in  vain  sought  in  their  conversation  foi 
that  soul-seizing  charm  which,  with  a magic,  un- 
definable  influence  breathes  round  the  syren 
Princess  of  Inismore.  0 ! it  was  requisite  I should 
mingle,  converse  with  other  women  to  justly  ap- 
preciate all  I possess  in  the  society  of  Glorvina ; 
for  surely  she  is  more^  or  every  other  woman  is 
less  than  mortal ! 

Before  the  men  joined  us  in  the  drawing-room, 
r was  quite  houdoirized  with  these  unaffected 


H 


10 


114 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


and  pleasing  girls.  One  wound  her  working 
silk  off  my  hands,  another  would  try  my  skill 
at  battledore,  and  the  youngest,  a charming  little 
being  of  thirteen,  told  me  the  history  of  a pet 
dove  that  was  dying  in  her  lap ; while  all  in- 
treated  I would  talk  to  them  of  the  Princess  of 
Inismore. 

“ For  my  part,”  said  the  youngest  girl,  “ I 
always  think  of  her  as  of  the  ‘Sleeping  Beauty 
in  the  Wood,’  or  some  other  princess  in  a fairy 
tale.” 

“We  know  nothing  of  her,  however,”  said 

Mrs.  O’D , “ but  by  report ; we  live  at  too 

great  a distance  to  keep  up  any  connexion  with 
the  Inismore  family  ; besides,  that  it  is  generally 
understood  to  be  Mr.  O’Melville’s  wish  to  live  in 
retirement.” 

This  is  the  first  time  I ever  heard  my  soi- 
disant  Prince  mentioned  without  his  title  ; but 
1 am  sure  I should  never  endure  to  hear  my 
Glorvina  called  Miss  O’Melville.  For  to  me, 
too,  does  she  appear  more  like  the  Roganda  of 
a fairy  tale,  than  “ any  mortal  mixture  of  earth’s 
mould.” 

The  gentlemen  now  joined  us,  and  as  soon  as 
tea  was  over,  the  piper  struck  up  in  the  hall, 
and  in  a moment  every  one  was  on  their  feet. 
My  long  journey  was  received  as  a sufficient 
plea  for  my  being  a spectator  only ; but  the 
priest  refused  the  immunity,  and  led  out  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


115 


lady  mother ; the  rest  followed,  and  the  idol 
amusement  of  the  gay-hearted  Irish,  received  its 
usual  homage.  But  thouo^h  the  women  danced 
with  considerable  grace  and  spirit,  they  did  not, 
like  Glorvina, 

“ Send  the  soul  upon  a jig  to  heaven.” 

The  dance  was  succeeded  by  a good  supper ; 
the  supper  by  a cheerful  song,  and  every  one 
seemed  unwilling  to  be  the  first  to  break  up  a 
social  compact  over  which  the  spirit  of  harmony 
presided. 

As  the  priest  and  I retired  to  our  rooms, 
“ You  have  now,”  said  he,  “ had  a specimen  of 
the  mode  of  living  of  the  Irish  gentry  of  a cer- 
tain rank  in  this  country ; the  day  is  devoted  to 
agricultural  business,  the  evening  to  temperate 
festivity  and  innocent  amusement ; but  neither 
the  avocations  of  the  morning  nor  the  engage- 
ments of  the  evening  suspend  the  rites  of  hos- 
pitality.” 

Thus  far  I wrote  before  I retired  that  night  to 
rest,  and  the  next  morning  at  an  early  hour  we 
took  our  leave  of  these  courteous  and  hospitable 
Milesians  ; having  faithfully  promised  on  the  pre- 
ceding night  to  repeat  our  visit  on  our  return  from 
the  north. 

We  are  now  at  a sorry  little  inn,  within  a mile 
or  two  of  the  nobleman’s  seat  to  whom  the  priest 
is  come,  and  on  whom  he  waits  to-morrow,  hav- 
ing just  learned  that  his  lordship  passed  by  here 


116 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


to-day  on  his  way  to  a gentleman’s  house  in  the 
neighbourhood  where  he  dines.  The  little  post- 
boy at  this  moment  rides  up  to  the  door  ; I shall 
drop  this  in  his  bag,  and  begin  a new  journal  on 
a fresh  sheet. 

Adieu, 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XXVII.  . 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

The  priest  is  gone  on  his  embassy.  The  rain 
which  batters  against  the  casement  of  my  little 
hotel  prevents  me  enjoying  a ramble.  I have 
nothing  to  read,  and  I must  write  or  yawn  myself 
to  death. 

Yesterday,  as  we  passed  the  imaginary  line 
which  divides  the  province  of  Connaught  from 
that  of  Ulster,  the  priest  said,  “ As  we  now  ad- 
vance northward,  we  shall  gradually  lose  sight 
, of  the  genuine  Irish  character,  and  those  ancient 
manners,  modes,  customs,  and  language  with 
which  it  is  inseparably  connected.  Not  long 
after  the  chiefs  of  Ireland  had  declared  James 
the  First  universal  monarch  of  their  country,  a 
sham  plot  was  pretended,  consonant  to  the  usual 
ingratitude  of  the  House  of  Stuart,  by  which  six 
entire  counties  of  the  north  became  forfeited, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


117 


which  James  with  a liberal  hand  bestowed  oik  his 
fav^orites;*  so  that  this  part  of  Ireland  may  in 
some  respects  be  considered  as  a Scottish  colony ; 
and  in  fact,  Scotch  diafect,  Scotch  manners, 
Scotch  modes,  and  the  Scotch  character  almost 
universally  prevail.  Here  the  ardour  of  the  Irish 
constitution  seems  abated  if  not  chilled.  Here 
the  ceadmile  fait  a of  Irish  cordiality  seldom  lends 
its  welcome  home  to  a strano^er’s  heart.  The 
bright  beams  which  illumine  the  gay  images  of 
Milesian  fancy  are  extinguished  ; the  convivial 

* “ The  pretext  of  rebellion  was  devised  as  a specious 
prelude  to  predetermined  confiscations,  and  the  inhabi- 
tauts  of  six  counties,  vvliose  aversion  to  the  yoke  of  Eng- 
land the  show  of  lenity  might  have  disarmed,  were  com- 
pelled to  encounter  misery  in  deserts,  and,  what  is  perhaps 
still  more  mortifying  to  human  pride,  to  behold  the  patri- 
mony of  their  ancestors,  which  force  had  wrested  from 
their  hands,  bestowed  the  prey  of  a more  favoured  people. 
The  substantial  view  of  providing  for  his  indigent  coun- 
trymen might  have  gratified  the  national  partiality  of 
James  ; the  favourite  passion  of  the  English  was  gratified 
by  the  triumph  of  Protestantism,  and  the  downfall  of  its 
antagonists:  men  who  professed  to  correct  a system  of 
peace  did  not  hesitate  to  pursue  their  purpose  through  a 
scene  of  iniquity  which  humanity  shudders  to  relate;  and 
by  an  action  more  criminal,  because  more  deliberate,  than 
the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew,  two-thirds  of  an  exten- 
sive province  were  offered  up  in  one  great  hecatomb,  on 
the  altar  of  false  policy  and  theological  prejudice.  Here 
let  us  survey  with  wonder  the  mysterious  operations  of 
divine  wisdom,  which,  from  a measure  base  in  its  means, 
and  atrocious  in  its  execution,  bas  derived  a source  of 
fame,  freedom,  and  industry  to  Ireland.” — Vide  a Review 
dfsome  interesting  perio  /s  of  Irish  History. 


118 


THE  WILD  IRLSL  JIRL. 


pleasures,  dear  to  the  Milesian  heart,  scared  at 
the  prudential  maxims  of  calculating  interest, 
take  flight  to  the  warmer  regions  of  the  south  ; 
and  the  endearing  socialities  of  the  soul,  lost  and 
neglected  amidst  the  cold  concerns  of  the  count- 
ing-house and  the  bleach-green^  droop  and  expire 
in  the  deficiency  of  the  nutritive  warmth  on 
which  their  tender  existence  depends.  So  much 
for  the  shades  of  the  picture,  which,  however, 
possesses  its  lights,  and  those  of  no  dim  lustre. 
The  north  of  Ireland  may  be  justly  esteemed  the 
palladium  of  Irish  industry  and  Irish  trade,  where 
the  staple  commodity  of  the  kingdom  is  reared 
and  manufactured  ; and  while  the  rest  of  Ireland 
is  devoted  to  that  species  of  agriculture,  which, 
in  lessening  the  necessity  of  human  labour,  de- 
prives man  of  subsistence  ; while  the  wretched 
native  of  the  southern  provinces  (where  little  la- 
bour is  required,  and  consequently  little  hire 
given)  either  famishes  in  the  midst  of  a helpless 
family,  or  begs  his  way  to  England,  and  offers 
those  services  there  in  harvest  time,  which  his 
own  country  rejects.  Here,  both  the  labourer 
and  his  hire  rise  in  the  scale  of  political  consi- 
deration ; here  more  hands  are  called  for  than 
can  be  procured  ; aud  the  peasant,  stimulated  to 
exertions  by  the  reward  it  reaps  for  him,  enjoys 
the  fruits  of  his  industry,  and  acquires  a relish  for 
the  comforts  and  conveniences  of  life.  Industry, 
and  this  taste  for  comparative  luxury,  mutually  re- 
act ; and  the  former,  while  it  bestows  the  means^ 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


119 


enables  them  to  gratify  the  suggestions  of  the 
latter ; while  their  wants,  nurtured  by  enjoyment, 
adord  fresh  allurement  to  continued  exertion, 
in  short,  a mind  not  too  deeply  fascinated  by  the 
iiorid  virtues,  the  warm  overflowings  of  gener- 
ous and  ardent  qualities,  will  find  in  the  north- 
erns of  this  island  much  to  admire  and  more  to 
esteem  ; but  on  the  heart  they  make  little  claims, 
and  from  its  affections  they  receive  but  little 
tribute.”* 

“ Then,  in  the  name  of  all  that  is  warm  and 
cordial,”  said  I,  “ let  us  hasten  back  to  the  pro- 
vince of  Connaught.” 

“ Thai  you  may  be  sure  w(  shall,”  returned 
Father  Johii  : ‘‘fori  know  none  of  these  sons 
of  trade  ; and  until  we  once  more  find  ourselves 
within  the  pale  of  Milesian  hospitality,  we  must 
put  up  at  a sorry  inn,  near  a tract  of  the  sea- 
coast,  called  the  Magilligans,  and  where  one  soli- 
t ary  fane  is  raised  to  the  once  tutelar  deity  of 
Ireland ; in  plain  English,  where  one  of  the  last 
of  the  race  of  Irish  hards  shelters  his  white 
head  beneath  the  fractured  roof  of  a wretched 
hut.  Although  the  evening  sun  was  setting  on 
the  western  wave  when  we  reached  the  auberge, 

* Belfast  cannot  be  deemed  the  metropolis  of  Ulster, 
but  may  almost  be  said  to  be  the  Athens  of  Ireland.  It  is 
at  least  the  cynosure  of  the  provifice  in  which  it  stands; 
and  those  beams  of  genius  which  are  there  concentrated, 
send  to  the  extremest  point  of  the  hemisphere  in  which 
they  shine  no  faint  ray  of  lumiiialioii. 


120 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


yet,  while  our  fried  eggs  and  bacon  were  prepa- 
ring, I proposed  to  the  priest  that  we  should  visit 
the  old  bard  before  we  put  up  our  horses.  Fa- 
ther John  readily  consented,  and  we  enquired  his 
address. 

‘‘  What,  the  mon  wi  the  twa  heads  said  our 
host.  1 confessed  my  ignorance  of  this  hydra 
epithet,  which  I learned  was  derived  from  an 
immense  wen  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

“ Oh  !”  continued  our  host,  A wull  be  telling 
you  weel  to  gang  tull  the  auld  Kearn,  and  one 
o’  our  wains  wull  show  ye  the  road.  Ye  need 
nae  fear  trusting  yoursels  to  our  wee  Wully,  for 
he  is  an  uncommon  canie  chiel.”  Such  was  the 
dialect  of  this  Hibernian  Scot,  who  assured  me 
he  had  never  been  twenty  miles  from  his  aine 
wee  hame.” 

We,  however^  dispensed  with  the  guidance  of 
xme  WtcFcy^  and  easily  found  our  way  to  the  hut 
of  the  man  “ wi  the  twa  heads.'"''  It  stood  on  the 
right  hand  by  the  road  side.  We  entered  it  with- 
out ceremony,  and  as  it  is  usual  for  strangers  to 
visit  this  last  of  the  Sons  of  Song,”  his  family 
betrayed  no  signs  of  surprise  at  our  apjvearance.. 
His  ancient  datne  announced  us  to.  her  husband 
When  we  entered  he  was  in  bod  ; and  when  he 
arose  to  receive  us  (for  he  was  dressed,  and  ap- 
peared oidy  to  have  lain  down  from  debility,)  we 
perceived  that  his  harp  had  been  the  companioT]i 
of  his  repose,  and  was  actually  laid  under  the 
bed-clothes  with  him.  We  found  the  venerable 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


121 


bard  cheerful*  and  communicative,  arid  he  seem- 
ed to  enter  even  with  an  eager  readiness  on  the 
circumstances  of  his  past  life,  while  his  “ soul 

* The  following  account  of  the  Bard  of  the  Magiili^ans 
was  taken  from  his  own  lips,  July  3,  1805,  by  tiie  Rev. 
Mr.  Sampson,  of  Magilligan,  and  forwarded  to  the  author, 
(through  the  medium  of  Dr.  Patterson  of  Derry.)  previous 
to  her  visit  to  that  part  of  the  north,  which  took  place  a 
few  weeks  after. 

UmbrcB^  July  3,  1805. 

Mao-illi^an. 

“ I MADE  the  survey  of  the  ‘ man  with  the  two 
heads,’  according  to  your  desire  ; but  not,  till  yes- 
terday, on  account  of  various  impossibilities. 
Here  is  my  report. — ' 

“ Dennis  Hampson,  or  the  ‘ man  with  the  two 
heads,’  is  a native  of  Craigmore,  near  Garvah, 
county  Derry  ; his  father,  Brian  Dorroghe.r  Hamp- 
son, held  the  whole  town-land  of  Tyrcrevan  ; his 
mother’s  relations  were  in  possession  of  the 
Wood-town  (both  considerable  farms  in  Magilli- 
gan.)  He  lost  his  sight  at  the  age  of  three  years 
by  the  smallpox  ; at  twelve  years  he  began  to 
learn  the  harp  under  Bridget  O’Cahan  : ‘ I'or,’ 
he  said,  ‘ in  those  times,  women  - as  well  as  men 
were  taught  the  Irish  harp  in  the  best  families  ; 
and  every  old  Irish  family  had  harps  in  plen- 
ty.’ His  next  master  was  John  C.  (jairagher,  a 
blind  travelling  harper,  whom  he  followed  to 
Buncranagh,  where  his^master  used  to  play  for 
Colonel  Vaughan  ; he  had  afterwards  Laughlan 
VOL.  II.  . 11 


122 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


seemed  heightened  by  the  song,”  with  which  at  in- 
intervals he  interrupted  his  narrative.  How  strong- 
ly did  those  exquisitely  beautiful  lines  of  Ossian 

Hanning  and  Patrick  Connor  in  succession  as 
masters. 

“ ‘ All  these  were  from  Connaught,  which  was,' 
he  added,  ‘ the  best  part  of  the  kingdom  for  Irish 
music  and  for  harpers.’  At  eighteen  years  of 
age  he  began  to  play  for  himself,  and  was  taken 
into  the  house  of  Counseller  Canning,  at  Garvah, 
for  half  a year ; his  host,  with  Squire  Gage  and 
Doctor  Bacon,  bought  him  a harp.  He  travelled 
nine  or  ten  years  through  Ireland  and  Scotland, 
and  tells  facetious  stories  of  gentlemen  in  both 
countries  : among  others,  that  in  passing  near  the 
place  of  Sir  J.  Campbell,  at  Aghanbrack,  he  learn- 
ed that  this  gentleman  had  spent  a great  deal, 
and  was  living  on  so  much  per  week  of  allow- 
ance. Hampson  through  delicacy  would  not 
call,  but  some  of  the  domestics  were  sent  after 
him  ; on  coming  into  the  castle.  Sir  J.  asked  him 
why  he  had  not  called,  adding,  ‘ Sir,  there  was 
never  a harper  but  yourself  that  passed  the  door  of 
my  father’s  house  to  which  Hampson  answered 
that  ‘ he  had  heard  in  the  ni^hhourhood  that  his 
honor  was  not  often  at  home  with  which  delicate 
evasion  Sir  J.  was  satisfied.  He  adds,  ‘ that  this 
was  the  highest  bred  and  stateliest  man  he  ever 
knew ; if  he  were  putting  on  a new  pair  of  gloves, 
and  one  of  them  dropped  on  the  floor,  (though 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


123 


rush  on  my  recollection  : “ But  age  is  now  on  my 
tongue,  and  my  mind  has  failed  me ; the  sons  oi 
song  are  gone  to  rest ; my  voice  remains  like  a 

ever  so  clean)  he  would  order  the  servant  to 
bring  him  another  pair.’  He  says  that  in  that 
iiiqe  he  never  met  with  but  one  laird  that  had  a 
harp,  and  that  was  a very  small  one,  played  on 
formerly  by  the  laird’s  father  ; that  when  he  had 
tuned  it  with  new  strings,  the  laird  and  his  lady 
both  were  so  pleased  with  his  music  that  they  in- 
vited hinf  back  in  these  words  : ‘ Hampson,  as 
soon  as  you  think  this  child  of  ours  (a  boy  of 
three  years  of  age)  is  fit  to  learn  on  his  grandfa- 
ther’s harp,  come  back  to  teach  him,  and  you 
shall  not  repent  it — but  this  he  never  accom- 
plished. 

“ He  told  me  a story  of  the  laird  of  Strone  with 
a great  deal  of  comic  relish.  When  he  was  play- 
ing at  the  house,  a message  came  that  a large 
party  of  gentlemen  were  coming  to  grouse,  and 
would  spend  some  days  with  him  (the  laird  ;)  the 
lady  being  in  great  distress  turned  to  .her  hus- 
band, saying  ‘ what  shall  we  do,  my  dear,  for  so 
many  in  the  way  of  beds  V ‘ Give  yourself  no 
vexation,’  replied  the  laird,  ‘ give  us  enough  to 
eat,  and  I will  supply  the  rest ; and  as  to  beds, 
believe  me,  every  man  shall  find  one  for  himself;' 
(meaning  that  his  guests  would  fall  under  the- 
table.)  In  his  second  trip  to  Scotland,  in  tho 
year  1745,  being  at  Edinburgh  when  Charley^ 


124 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


blast  that  roars  loudly  on  a sea-surrounded  rocfe 
after  the  winds  are  laid,  and  the  distant  marine! 
sees  the  waving  trees.’^ 

the  Pretender,  was  there,  he  was  called  into  the 
great  hall  to  play;  at  first  he  was  alone,  after- 
wards four  fiddlers  joined:  the  tune  called  for 
was,  ‘ The  king  shall  enjoy  his  own  again  — he 
sung  here  part  of  the  words  following : — 

‘ I hope  to  se-e  the  day 
When  the  whigs  shall  run  away. 

And  the  king  shall  enjoy  his  own  again.’ 

“ I asked  him  if  he  heard  the  Pretender  speak  ; 
he  replied — ‘ 1 only  heard  him  ask,  Is  Sylvan 
there?  on  which  some  one  answered,  he  is  not 
here,  please  your  royal  highness,  but  he  shall  be 
sent  for.’  ‘ He  meant  to  say  Sullivan,^  continued 
Kampson,  ‘ but  that  was  the  way  he  called  the 
name.’  He  says  that  Captain  Mac  Donnell, 
when  in  Ireland,  came  to  see  him,  and  that  he 
told  the  captain  that  Charley’s  cockade  was  in 
his  father’s  house. 

“ Hampson  was  brought  into  the  Pretender  s 
presence  by  Colonel  Kelly,  of  Roscommon,  and 
Sir  Thomas  Sheridan,  -and  that  he,  (Hampson) 
was  then  about  fifty  years  old.  He  played  in 
many  Irish  houses,  among  others,  those  of  Lord 
de  Courcey,  Mr.  Fortesque,  Sir  P.  Belew,  Squire 
Roche,  and  in  the  great  towns,  Dublin,  Cork, 
&c.,  &c.  Respecting  all  which  he  interspersed 
pleasant  anecdotes  with  surprising  gaiety  and 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


1 O'; 
1 

So  great  was  my  veneration  for  this  ‘‘  'Bard  of 
other  times,”  that  I felt  as  though  it  would  have 
been  an  indelicacy  to  have  offered 'him  any  pe- 

correctness  ; he  mentioned  many  anecdotes  of 
my  grandfather  and  grand-aunt,  at  whose  houses 
he  used  to  be  frequently.  In  fact,  in  this  identi- 
cal harper,  whom  you  sent  me  to  survey,  I recog- 
nized an  acquaintance,  who,  as  soon  as  he  found 
me  out,  seemed  exhilarated  at  having  an  old  friend 
of  (what  he  called)  ‘the  old  stock,’  in  his  poor 
cabin.  He  even  mentioned  many  anecdotes  of 
my  own  boyhood,  which,  though  by  me  long  for- 
gotten, were  accurately  true.  These  things  shov/ 
the  surprising  power  of  his  recollection  at  the 
age  of  one  hundred  and  eight  years.  Since 
I saw  him  last,  which  was  in  1787,  the  wen  on 
the  back  of  his  head  is  greatly  increased  ; it  is 
now  hanging  over  his  neck  and  shoulders,  nearly 
as  large  as  his  head,  from  which  circumstance 
he  derives  his  appellative,  ‘ the  man  with  two 
heads.’  General  Hart,  who  is  an  admirer  of 
music,  sent  a limner  lately  to  take  a drawing  of 
him,  which  cannot  fail  to  be  interesting,  if  it  were 
only  for  the  venerable  expression  of  his  meagre, 
blind  countenance,  and  the  symmetry  of  his  tall, 
thin,  but  not  debilitated  person.  I found  him  ly- 
ing on  his  back  in  bed  near  the  fire  of  his  cabin  ; 
his  family  employed  in  the  usual  way  ; his  harp 
under  the  bed-clothes,  by  which  his  face  was 
covered  also.  When  he  heard  my  name  he  start 

12* 


126 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


cuiiiary  reward  for  the  exertions  of  his  tiinefa. 
talent  ; I therefore  made  my  little  offering  to  his 
wife,  having  previously,  while  he  was  reciting 

ed  up  (being  already  dressed)  and  seemed  re- 
joiced to  hear  the  sound  of  my  voice,  which,  he 
said,  he  began  to  recollect.  He  asked  for  my 
children,  whom  I brought  to  see  him,  and  he 
felt  them  over  and  over ; — then,  with  tones  of 
great  affection,  he  blessed  God  that  he  had  seen 
four  generations  of  the  name,  and  ended  by  giv- 
ing the  children  his  blessing.  He  then  tuned 
his  old  time-beaten  harp,  his  solace  and  bed-fel- 
low, and  played  with  astonishing  justness  and 
good  taste. 

“ The  tunes  which  he  played  were  his  favour- 
ites ; and  he,  with  an  elegance  of  manner,  said 
at  the  same  time,  ‘I  remember  you  have  a fond- 
ness for  music,  and  the  tunes  you  used  to  ask  for 
I have  not  forgotten,  which  were  Cualin,  The 
Dawning  of  the  Day,  Elleen-a-roon,  Ceandubh- 
dilis,  &c.  These,  except  the  third,  were  the 
first  tunes,  which,  according  to  regulation,  he 
played  at  the  famous  meeting  of  harpers  at  Bel- 
fast, under  the  patronage  of  some  amateurs  of 
Irish  music.  Mr.  Bimton,  the  celebrated  musi- 
cian of  that  town,  was  here  the  year  before,  at 
Hampson’s,  noting  his  tunes  and  his  manner  of 
playing,  which  is  in  the  best  old  style.  He  said 
with  the  hottest  eeling  of  self-love,  ‘ When  I 
played  the  old  mnes  not  another  of  the  harpers 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


127 


his  “ unvarnished  tale,”  taken  a sketch  of  hia 
most  singularly  interesting  and  striking  figure, 
as  a present  for  Glorvina  on  my  return  to  Inis- 

would  play  after  me.’  He  came  to  Magilligan 
many  years  ago,  and  at  the  age  of  eighty-six, 
married  a woman  of  Innishowen,  whom  he  found 
living  in  the  house  of  a friend.  ‘ I can’t  tell,’ 
quoth  Hampson,  ‘if  it  was  not  the  devil  buckled 
us  together ; she  being  lame  and  I blind.’  By 
this  wife  he  has  one  daughter,  married  to  a cooo- 
er,  who  has  several  children,  and  maintains  them 
all,  though  Hampson  (in  this  alone  seeming  to 
doat)  says  that  his  son-in-law  is  a spendthrift  and 
that  he  maintains  them  ; the  family  humour  his 
whim,  and  the  old  man  is  quieted.  He  is  pleased 
when  they  tell  him,  as  he  thinks  is  the  case,  that 
several  people  of  character,  for  musical  taste, 
send  letters  to  invite  him  ; and  he,  though  inca- 
pable now  of  leaving  the  house,  is  planning  ex- 
peditions never  to  be  attempted,  much  less  real- 
ized ; these  are  the  only  traces  of  mental  debili- 
ty ; as  to  his  body,  he  has  no  inconvenience  but 
that  arising  from  a chronic  disorder : his  habits 
have  ever  been  sober ; his  favourite  drink,  once 
beer,  now  milk  and  water ; his  diet  chiefly  po- 
tatoes. I asked  him  to  teach  my  daughter,  but 
he  declined ; adding,  however,  that  it  was  toe 
hard  for  a young  girl,  but  that  nothing  would  give 
him  greater  pleasure  if  he  thought  it  could  be 
done 


128 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


more.  While  my  heart  a thousand  times  called 
on  hers  to  participate  in  the  sweet  but  melancholy 
pleasure  it  experienced,  as  I listened  to  and 
oazed  on  this  venerable  beirm. 

“ Lord  Bristol,  while  iodoinor  at  the  bathiim 
house  of  Mount  Saint,  near  MacrilHoan,  oave  three 
guineas  and  ground  rent  free,  to  build  the  house 
where  Hampson  now  lives.  At  the  house-warm- 
ing, his  lordship  with  his  lady  and  family  came, 
?md  the  children  danced  to  his  harp  ; the  bishap 
gave  three  crowns  to  the  family,  and  in  the  dear 
year,  his  lordship  called  in  his  coach  and  six, 
stopped  at  the  door,  and  gave-  a guinea  to  buy 
meal. 

‘‘  Would  it  not  be  well  to  get  up  a subscription 
for  poor  old  Hampson  ? It  might  be  sent  to  va- 
rious towns  where  he  is  known. 

Ever  yours, 

c.  V.  SAMPSON. 


ADDENDA. 

“ In  the  time  of  Noah  I was  green, 

After  his  flood  I have  not  been  seen, 

Until  seventeen  hundred  and  two.  I was  found 
By  Connac  Kelly,  under  ground; 

Who  raised  me  up  to  that  degree  ; 

Glueen  of  music  they  call  me.” 

“The  above  lines  were  sculptured  on  the  old 
harp,  which  is  made,  the  sides  and  front  of  white 
sally,  the  back  of  hr,  patched  with  copper  and 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


129 


Whenever  there  was  a revel  of  the  feelings,  a 
joy  of  the  imagination,  or  a delicate  fruition  of 
a refined  and  touching  sentiment,  how  my  sou. 
misses  her!  I find  it  impossible  to  make  even 
the  amiable  and  intelligent  priest  enter  into  the 
nature  of  my  feelings  ; but  how  naturally,  in  the 
overflowing  of  my  heart,  do  I turn  towards  her, 
yet  turn  in  vain,  or  find  her  image  only  in  my 
enamoured  soul,  which  is  full  of  her.  Oh!  how 
much  do  Lowe  her.'  What  a vigorous  spring 
has  she  opened  in  the  wintry  waste  of  a desola- 
ted mind.  It  seems  as  though  a seal  had  been 
fixed  upon  every  bliss  of  the  senses  and  the 
heart,  which  her  breath  alone  could  dissolve  that 

iron  plates,  his  daughter  now  attending  him  is 
'only  thirty-three  years  old. 

1 have  now  given  you  an  account  of  my  visit, 
and  even  thank  you  (though  my  fingers  are  tired) 
-for  the  pleasure  you  procured  to  me  by  this  in- 
teresting commission. 

Once  more  ever  yours, 

C.  V.  s. 

In  February,  1806,  the  author,  being  then  but 
eighteen  miles  distant  from  the  residence  of  the 
bard,  received  a message  from  him,  intimating 
that  as  he  heard  she  wished  to  purchase  his  harp, 
- he  would  dispose  of  d on  very  moderate  terms. 
He  was  then  -in  good  health  and  spirits  though 
in  his  hundred  and  ninth  year. 

I 


130 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


all  was  gloom  and  chaos  until  she  s^id  “ le  there 
he  light.” 

As  we  rode  back  to  our  auberge  by  the  light 
of  a cloudless  but  declining  moon,  after  some 
conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  bard  whom 
we  had  visited,  the  priest  exclaimed,  “ Who 
would  suppose  that  that  wretched  hut  was  the 
residence  of  one  of  that  order  once  so  revered 
among  the  Irish;  whose  persons  and  properties 
were  held  sacred  and  inviolable  by  the  common 
consent  of  all  parties,  as  well  as  by  the  laws  of 
the  nation,  even  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  warfare, 
and  all  the  anarchy  of  intestine  commotion;  an 
order  which  held  the  second  rank  in  the  state 

♦ The  genuine  history  and  records  of  Ireland  abonni 
with  incidents  singularly  romantic,  and  of  details  exquisite- 
ly interesting.  In  the  account  of  the  death  of  the  celebra- 
ted heroConrigh,  as  given  by  Demetrius  O’Connor,  the  fol- 
lowing instance  of  fidelity  and  affection  of  a family  bard 
is  given.  “ When  the  beautiful  but  faithless  Blanaid, 
whose  hand  Conrigh  had  obtained  as  the  reward  of  his 
valour,  armed  a favourite  lover  against  the  life  of  her  hus- 
band, and  fled  with  the  murderer;  Fierchiertne,  the  poet 
at}d  bard  of  Conrigh,  in  the  anguish  of  his  heart  for  the  loss 
of  a generous  master,  resolved  upon  sacrificing  the  crim- 
inal Blanaid  to  the  manes  of  his  murdered  'ord.  He  there- 
fore secretly  pursjied  her  from  the  palace  in  Kerry  to  the 
court  of  Ulster,  whither  she  had  fled  vvim  her  homicide 
paramour.  On  his  arrival  there,  the  first  object  that  salu- 
ted his  eyes  was  the  king  of  that  province,  walking  on  the 
the  edge  of  the  steep  rocks  of  Kinchin  Beara,  surrounded 
by  the  principal  nobility  of  bis  court;  and  in  tbe  splendid 
train  he  soon  perceived  the  lovely,  but  guilty  Blanaid  and 
her  treacherous  lover,  ’^he  bard  concealed  himself  until 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


13] 


and  whose  members,  in  addition  to  the  interesting 
duties  of  their  profession,  were  the  heralds  ol 
peace,  and  the  donors  of  immortality  ? Clothed 
in  white  and  flowing  robes,  the  bards  marched  to 
battle  at  the  head  of  the  troops,  and  by  the  side 
of  the  chief ; and  wdiile  by  their  martial  strains 
they  awakened  courage  even  to  desperation  ir 
the  heart  of  the  warrior,  borne  away  by  the  furoi 
of  their  own  enthusiasm,  they  not  unfrequently 
rushed  into  the  thick  of  the  fight  themselves,  and 
by  their  maddening  inspirations  decided  the  fate 
of  the  battle  ; or  when  victory  descended  on  the 
ensanguined  plain,  they  hung  over  -the  Mrarrior’s 
funeral  pile,  and  chaunted  to  the  strains  of  the 
national  lyre  the  deeds  of  the  valiant,  and  the 
prowess  of  the  hero  ; while  the  brave  and  list- 
ening survivors  -envied  and  emulated  ilie  glory 
of  the  deceased,  and  believed  that  this  tribute  of 
inspired  genius  at  the  funeral  rites  was  neces- 
sary to  the  repose  of  the  departed  soul.” 

“And  from  what  period,”  said  I,  “ may  the  de- 
cline of  these  once  potent  and  revered  members 
of  the  state  be  dated  ?” 

“ I would  almost  venture  to  say,”  returned  the 
priest,  “ so  early  as  in  the  latter  end  of  the  sixth 
century;  for  we  read  in  an  Irish  record,  that 

he  observed  his  mistress  withdraw  from  the  brilliant  crowd, 
and  stand  at  the  edge  of  a steep  cliff ; then  courteously  and 
flatteringly  addressing  tier,  and  clasping  her  firmly  to  hia 
breast,  threw  himself  headlong  with  his  prey  down  the 
precipice.  They  were  both  dashed  to  pieces.^' 


132 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


about  that  period  the  Irish  monarch  conv^ened  the 
princes,  nobles,  and  clergy  of  the  kingdom,  to 
the  parliament  of  Drujnceat ; and  the  chief  mo- 
tive alleged  for  summoning  this  vast  assembly 
was  to  banish  the  Fiieas  or  bards.” 

“ Which  might  be  deemed  then,”  interrupted 
I,  “ a league  of  the  Dunces  against  Wit  and 
Genius.'*'^ 

Not  altogether,”  returned  the  priest.  ‘‘  It 
w^as  in  some  respects  a necessary  policy.  For, 
strange  to  say,  nearly  the  third  part  of  Ireland 
had  adopted  a profession  at  once  so  revered,  and 
privileged,  so  honoured  and  so  caressed  by  all 
ranks  of  the  state.  Indeed,  about  this  period, 
such  was  the  influence  they  had  obtained  in  the 
kingdom,  that  the  inhabitants  without  distinction 
were  oblioed  to  receive  and  maintain  them  from 

O 

November  till  May,  if  it  were  the  pleasure  of  the 
bard  to  become  their  guest ; nor  were  there  any 
object  on  which  their  daring  wishes  rested  that 
was  not  instantly  put  into  their  possession.  And 
such  was  the  ambition  of  one  of  their  order,  that 
he  made  a demand  on  the  golden  broach  or  clasp 
that  braced  the  regal  robe  on  the  breast  of  royal- 
ty itself,  which  was  unalienable  with  the  crown, 
and  descended  with  the  empire  from  generation 
to  generation.” 

“ Good  God  !”  said  I,  V what  an  idea  does  this 
give  of  the  omnipotence  of  music  and  poetry 
among  those  refined  enthusiasts,  who  have  ever 
borne  with  such  impatience  the  oppressive  chain 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


133 


of  power,  yet  suffer  themselves  to  be  soothed 
into  slavery  by  the  melting  strains  of  the  nation- 
al lyre.” 

“ It  is  certain,”  replied  the  priest,  “ that  no 
nation,  not  even  the  Greeks,  were  ever  attached 
with  more  passionate  enthusiasm  to  the  divine  / 
arts  of  poesy  and  song,  than  the  ancient  Irish,/ 
until  their  fatal  and  boundless  indulgence  to  their 
professors  became  a source  of  inquietude  and  op- 
pression to  the  whole  state.  The  celebrated  St. 
Columkill,  who  was  himself  a poet,  became  a 
mediator  between  the  monarch,  already  men- 
tioned and  the  ‘ tuneful  throng and  by  his  inter- 
cession, the  king  changed  his  first  intention  of 
banishing  I'he  whole  college  of  bards,  to  limiting 
their  numbers  ; for  it  was  an  argument  of  the 
liberal  saint  that  it  became  a great  monarch  to 
patronize  the  arts ; to  retain  about  his  person  an 
eminent  bard  and  antiquary ; and  to  allow  to  his 
tributary  princes  or  chieftains,  a poet  capable  of 
singing  their  exploits,  and  of  registering  the 
genealogy  of  their  illustrious  families.  This 
liberal  and  necessary  plan  of  reformation,  sug- 
gested by  the  saint,  was  adopted  by  the  monarch ; 
and  these  salutary  regulations  became  the  prom- 
inent standard  for  many  succeeding  ages  : and 
though  the  severity  of  those  regulations  against 
the  bards,  enforced  in  the  tyrannic  reign  of  Hen- 
ry VIII,  as  proposed  by  Baron  Finglas,  consider- 
ably lessened  their  power  yet  until  the  reign 
Item. — That  no  Irish  minstrels,  rhymers,  thnnaghs 
VOL.  II  12 


134  'THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

of  Elizabeth  their  characters  were  not  stripped 
of  that  sacred  stole,  which  the  reverential  love  of 
their  countrymen  had  flung  over  them.  The  high 
estimation  in  which  the  bard  was  held  in  the 
commencement  of  the  empire  of  Ireland’s  arch- 
enemy is  thus  attested  by  Sir  Philip  Sidney: 

‘ In  our  neighbouring  country,’  says  he,  ‘ where 
truly  learning  grows  very  bare,  yet  are  their  poets 
held  in  devout  reverence.’  But  Elizabeth,  jeal 
ous  of  that  influence  which  the  bardic'“order  ol 
Ireland  held  over  the  most  puissant  of  her  chiefs 
not  only  enacted  laws  against  them,  but  agains 
such  as  received  or  entertained  them  : for  Spenser 
informs  us  that,  even  then,  ‘ their  verses  were 
taken  up  with  a general  applause,  and  usually 
sung  at  all  feasts  and  meetings.’  Of  the  spirited, 
yet  pathetic  manner  in  which  the  genius  of  Irish 
minstrelsy  addressed  itself  to  the  soul  of  the  Irish 
chief,  many  instances  are  still  preserved  in  the 
records  of  traditional  lore.  A poem  of  Fearfla- 
tha,  family  bard  to  the  O’Nials  of  Clanboy,  and 
beginning  thus  : — ‘O  the  condition  of  our  dear 
countrymen,  how  languid  their  joys,  how  acute 
their  sorrows,  &c.,  &;c.,’  the  Prince  of  Inismore 
takes  peculiar  delight  in  repeating.  But  in  the 
lapse  of  time,  and  vicissitude  of  revolution,  this 
order,  once  so  revered,  has  finally  sunk  into  the 

nebards,  be  messengers  to  desire  any  goods  of  any  man 
dwelling  within  the  English  pale,  upon  pain  of  forfeiture 
of  all  their  goods,  and  their  bodies  to  be  imprisoned  at  the 
king’s  will. — Harris’s  Hiberiiica,  p.  98. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


135 


casual  retention  of  a harper,  piper,  or  fiddler, 
which  are  generally,  but  not  universally  to  be 
found  in  the  houses  of  the  Irish  country  gentle* 
men ; as  you  have  yourself  witnessed  in  the  cas- 
tle of  Inismore  and  the  hospitable  mansion  of 

the  O’D s.  One  circumstance,  however, 

I must  mention  to  you.  Although  Ulster  was 
never  deemed  poetic  ground,  yet  when  destruc- 
tion threatened  the  bardic  order  in  the  southern 
and  western  provinces,  where  their  insolence, 
nurtured  by  false  indulgence,  often  rendered  them 
an  object  of  popular  antipathy,  hither  they  fled 
for  protection,  and  at  different  periods  found  it 
from  the  northern  princes:  and  Ulster,  you  per- 
ceive, is  now  the  last  resort  of  the  most  ancient 
of  the  survivors  of  the  ancient  Irish  bards,  who, 
after  having  imbibed  inspiration  in  the  classic  re- 
gions of  Connaught,  and  effused  his  national 
strains  through  every  province  of  his  country, 
draws  forth  the  last  feeble  tones  of  his  almost 
silenced  harp  amidst  the  chilling  regions  of  the 
north  ; almost  unknown  and  undistinguished,  ex- 
cept by  the  few  strangers  who  are  led  by  chance 
or  curiosity  to  this  hut,  and  from  whose  casual 
bounties  he  chiefly  derives  his  subsistence.” 

We  had  now  reached  the  door  of  our  auberge  ; 
and  the  dog  of  the  house  jumping  on  me  as  I 
alighted,  our  hostess  exclaimed,  “ Ah  sir ! our 
wee  doggie  kens  ye  uncoo  week”  Is  not  this  the 
language  of  the  Isle  of  Sky  ? The  priest  left 
me  early  this  morning  on  his  evidently  unplea 


136 


THE  WILD  IRISI.  GIRL. 


sant  embassy.  On  his  return  we  visit  the  Giant’s 
Causeway,  which  I understand  is  but  sixteen 
miles  distant.  Of  this  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine 
of  Nature  in  her  grandest  aspect,  I shall  tell  you 
/nothing ; but  when  we  meet  will  put  into  your 
hands  a work  written  on  the  subject,  from  which 
you  will  derive  equal  pleasure  and  instruction. 
At  this  moment  the  excellent  priest  appears  on 
his  little  nag  ; the  rain  no  longer  beats  against 
my  casement ; the  large  drops  suspended  from 
the  foliage  of  the  trees  sparkle  with  the  beams 
of  the  meridian  sun,  which  bursting  forth  in 
cloudless  radiancy,  dispels  the  misty  shower 
and  brilliantly  lights  up  the  arch  of  heaven’s 
promise.  Would  you  know  the  images  now  mos; 
buoyant  in  my  cheered  bosom  ; they  are  Ossian 
and  Glorvina : it  is  for  him  to  describe,  for  her  to 
feel  the  renovating  charms  of  this  interesting 
moment. 

Adieu ! I shall  grant  you  a reprieve  till  we 
once  more  reach  the  dear  ruins  of  Inismore. 

H.  M. 


LETTER  XXVIII. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

Plato  compares  the  soul  to  a small  republic, 
of  which  the  reasoning  and  judging  powers  are 


THE  WILD  IRISH  irlRL.  131 

stationed  in  the  head  as  in  a citadel,  and  of  which 
the  senses  are  the  cruards  or  servants. 

o 

Alas  ! my  dear  friend,  this  republic  is  with  me 
all  anarchy  and  confusion,  and  its  guards,  disor- 
dered  and  overwhelmed,  can  no  longer  afford  it 
protection.  I would  be  calm,  and  give  a succinct 
account  of  my  return  to  Inismore  ; but  impetuous 
feelings  rush  over  the  recollection  of  trivial  cir- 
cumstances, and  all  concentrate  on  that  fatal  point 
which  transfixes  every  thought,  every  motion  of 
my  soul. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  our  second  reception  at 
the  mansion  of  the  O’D’s  had  lost  nothing  of  that 
cordiality  which  distinguished  our  first ; but  nei- 
ther the  cheerful  kindness  of  the  parents,  nor  the 
blandishments  of  the  charming  daughters  could 
allay  that  burning  impatience  which  fired  my 
bosom  to  return  to  Glorvina,  after  the  tedious  ab- 
sence of  five  long  days.  All  night  I tossed  on 
my  pillow  in  the  restless  agitation  of  expected 
bliss,  and  with  the  dawn  of  that  day  on  which  I 
hoped  once  more  to  taste  “ the  life  of  life"'  1 
arose  and  flew  to  the  priest^s  room  to  chide  his 
tardiness.  Early  as  it  was  I found  ho  had  alrea- 
dy left  his  apartment,  and  as  I turned  from  the 
door  to  seek  him,  1 perceived  a written  paper  ly- 
ing on  the  floor.  I took  it  up,  and,  carelessly 
glancing  my  eye  over  it,  discovered  that  it  was 
a receipt  from  the  Prince’s  inexorable  creditor, 
who  (as  Father  John  informed  me)-  refused  to 
take  the  farm  off  his  hands : but  what  was  mv 

12* 


'38 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


amazenieiil  to  find  that  this  receipt  was  an  acknow- 
ledgment for  those  jewels  which  1 had  so  often 
seen  stealing  their  lustre  from  Glorvina’s  charms; 
and  which  were  now^  individually  mentioned,  and 
given  in  lieu  of  the  rent  for  this  very  farm,  hy 
which  the  Prince  was  so  materially  injured, 
'rhe  blood  boiled  in  my  veins,  I could  have  an- 
nihilated this  rascally  cold-hearted  landlord  ; I 
could  have  wept  on  the  neck  of  the  unfortunate 
Prince ; I could  have  fallen  at  the  feet  of  Glor- 
vina  and  worshipped  her  as  the  first  of  the  Al- 
mighty’s works.  Never  in  the  midst  of  all  my 
artificial  wants,  my  boundless  and  craving  extrav 
agance,  did  I ever  feel  the  want  of  riches  as  at 
this  moment,  when  a small  part  of  what  I had  so 
worthlessly  flung  away,  would  have  saved  the 
pride  of  a nol)le,  an  indignant  spirit  from  a deep 
and  deadly  wound  and  spared  the  heart  of  filial 
solicitude  and  tender  sensibility,  many  a pang  or 
tortured  feelings.  The  rent  of  the  farm  was  a 
hundred  pounds  per  annum.  The  Prince,  I un- 
derstood, was  three  years  in  arrear ; yet,  though 
there  were  no  diamonds,  and  not  many  pearls,  1 
shotdd  suppose  the  jewels  were  worth  more  than 
the  sum  for  which  they  were  given.* 

While  I stood  burning  with  indignation,  the 
paper  still  trembling  in  my  hand,  I heard  the 

^ I liave  been  informed  that  a descendant  of  the  pro- 
vincial kings  of  Connaught  parted  not  many  years  back 
with  his  golden  crown  wiiich  for  so  many  ages  encircled 
the  royal  brows  of  his  ancestors. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


139 


footstep  of  the  priest;  I let  fall  the  paper ; he  ad« 
vanced,  snatched  it  up,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket- 
book,  with  an  air  of  self-reprehension  that  deter- 
mined me  to  conceal  the  knowledge  so  accident- 
ally acquired.  Having  left  our  adieux  for  our 
courteous  hosts  with  one  the  young  men,  we 
at  last  set  out  for  Inismore.  The  idea  of  so  soon 
meeting  my  soul’s  precious  Glorvina,  banished 
every  idea  less  delightful. 

“ Our  meeting  (said  I)  will  be  attended  with 
a new  and  touching  interest,  the  sweet  result  of 
that  perfect  intelligence  which  now  for  the  first 
time  subsisted  between  us,  and  which  stole  its 
birth  from  that  tender  and  delicious  glance  which 
love  first  bestowed  on  me  beneath  the  cypress 
tree  of  the  rustic  cemetery.” 

Already  I beheld  the  air-lifted”  figure  of 
Glorvina  floating  towards  me.  Already  I felt  the 
soft  hands  tremble  in  mine,  and  gazed  on  the 
deep  suffusion  of  her  kindling  blushes,  the  ar- 
dent welcome  of  her  bashful  eyes,  and  all  that 
dissolving  and  impassioned  langour,  with  which 
she  would  resign  herself  to  the  sweet  abandon- 
ment of  her  soul’s  chastened  tenderness,  and  the 
fullest  confidence  in  that  adoring  heart  which  had 
now  unequivocally  assured  her  of  its  homage  and 
eternal  fealty.  In  short,  I had  resolved  to  con- 
fess my  name  and  rank  to  Glorvina,  to  offer  her 
my  hand,  and  to  trust  to  the  affection  of  our  fond 
and  indulgent  fathers  for  forgiveness. 

Thus  warmed  by  the  visions  of  my  heated  fan 


140 


THE  WILD  IRISH  Oi.RX. 


cy  I could  no  longer  stifle  my  impatience;  and 
when  we  were  within  seven  miles  of  the  castle 
[ told  the  priest,  who  was  ambling  slowly  on^ 
that  I would  be  his  avant-courier.  and  clapping 
spurs  to  my  horse  soon  lost  sight  of  my  tardy 
companion. 

At  the  draw-bridge  I met  one  of  the  servants 
to  whom  I gave  the  panting  animal,  and  flew, 
rather  than  walked,  to  the  castle.  At  its  portals 
stood  the  old  nurse  ; she  almost  embraced  me, 
and  I almost  returned  the  caress  ; but  with  a sor- 
rowful countenance  she  informed  me  that  the 
Prince  was  dangerously  ill,  and  had  not  left  his 
bed  since  our  departure  ; that  things  altogether 
were  going  on  but  poorly  ; and  that  she  was  sure 
the  sight  of  me  would  do  her  young  lady’s  heart 
good,  for  that  she  did  nothing  but  weep  all  day, 
and  sit  by  her  father’s  bed  all  night.  She  then 
informed  me  that  Glorvina  was  alone  in  the  bou- 
doir. With  a thousand  pulses-  fluttering  at  my 
breast,  full  of  the  idea  of  stealing  on  the  melan- 
choly  solitude  of  my  pensive  love,  with  a beating 
heart  and  noiseless  step,  I approached  the  sacred 
asylum  of  innocence.  The  door  lay  partly  open  ; 
Glorvina  was  seated  at  a table,  and  apparently 
engaged  in  writing  a letter,  I paused  a moment 
for  breath  ere  I advanced.  Glojvina  at  the  same 
instant  raised  her  head  from  the  paper,  read  over 
what  she  had  written,  and  wept  bitterly  ; then 
wrote  again — paused,  s ghed,  and  drew  a letter 
fiom  her  bosom — (yes  her  bosom)  which  she 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


141 


perused,  often  waving  her  head,  and  sighing 
deeply,  and  wiping  away  the  tears  that  dimmed 
her  eyes,  while  once  a cherub  smile  stole  on  her 
lip  {that  smile  I once  thought  all  my  own ;)  then 
folding  up  the  letter,  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips, 
and  consigning  it  to  her  bosom,  exclaimed,  “First 
and  best  of  men !”  What  else  she  murmured 
I could  not  distinguish  ; but  as  if  the  perusal  of 
this  prized  letter  had  renovated  every  drooping 
spirit,  she  ceased  to  weep,  and  wrote  with  great- 
er earnestness  than  before. 

' Motionless,  transfixed,  I leaned  for  support 
against  the  frame  of  the  door,  until  Glorvina, 
having  finished  her  letter  and  sealed  it,  arose  to 
depart ; then  I had  the  presence  of  mind  to  steal 
away  and  conceal  myself  in  a dark  recess  of  the 
corridor.  Yet,  though  unseen,  I saw  her  wipe 
away  the  traces  of  her  tears  from  her  cheek,  and 
pass  me  with  a composed  and  almost  cheerful 
air.  I softly  followed,  and  looking  down  the 
dark  abyss  of  the  steep  well  stairs,  which  she 
rapidly  descended,  I perceived  her  put  her  letter 
in  the  hands  of  the  little  post-boy,  who  hurried 
away  with  it.  Impelled  by  the  impetuous  feel- 
ings of  the  moment  I was — yes,  I was  so  far  for- 
getful of  myself,  my  principle,  and  pride,  of  every 
sentiment  save  love  and  jealousy,  that  I was  on 
the  point  of  following  the  boy,  snatching  the  let- 
ter, and  learning  the  address  of  this  mysterious 
correspondent,  this  “ First  and  best  of  menP  But 
ihe  natural  digiity  of  my  vehement,  yet  unde* 


142 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


based  mind,  saved  me  a meanness  I should  never 
have  forgiven  : for  what  right  had  I forcibly  to 
possess  myself  of  another’s  secret?  I turned 
back  to  a window  in  the  corridor  and  beheld  Glor- 
vina’s  little  herald  mounted  on  his  mule  riding  off, 
while  she,  standing  at  the  gate,  pursued  him  with 
that  impatient  look  so  strongly  indicative  of  her 
ardent  character.  When  he  washout  of  sioht  she 
withdrew,  and  the  next  minute  I heard  her  steal- 
ing towards  her  father’s  room.  Unable  to  bear 
her  presence,  I flew  to  mine  ; thaX  apartment  I had 
lately  occupied  with  a heart  so  redolent  of  bliss — 
a heart  that  now  sunk  beneath  the  unexpected 
blow  which  crushed  all  its  new-born  hopes,  and 
J feared  annihilated  forever  its  sweet  but  short- 
lived felicity.  “ And  is  this,  then,”  I exclaimed, 
“ the  fond  re-union  my  fancy  painted  in  such 
glowing  colours  ?”  God  of  heaven  ! at  the  very 
moment  when  my  thoughts  and  affections,  forced 
for  a tedious  interval  from  the  object  of  their 
idolatry,  like  a compressed  spring  set  free,  bound- 
ed with  new  viorour  to  their  native  bias.  Yet 

o 

was  not  the  disappointment  of  my  own  individual 
hope  scarcely  more  agonizing  than  the  destruc- 
iion  of  that  consciousness  which,  in  giving  one 
perfect  being  to  my  view,  redeemed  the  species 
tn  my  misanthropic  opinion. 

“ O Glorvina!”  I passionately  added,  if  even 
thou,’ fair  being,  reared  in  thy  native  wilds  and 
native  solitudes  art  deceptive,  artful,  imposing, 
deep,  deep  in  all  the  wiles  of  hypocrisy,  then  is 


THE  WILD  IR  SH  GIRL. 


143 


the  original  sin  of  our  nature  unredeemed : vice 
the  innate  principle  of  our  being — and  those  who 
preach  the  existence  of  virtue  but  idle  dreamers 
who  fancy  that  in  others  to  themselves  unknown 
And  yet,  sweet  innocent,  if  thou  “ art  more  sin- 
ned against  than  sinning if  the  phantoms  of  a 
jealous  brain — oh  ! ’tis  impossible  ! The  ardent 
kiss  impressed  upon  the  senseless  paper,  which 
thy  breast  enshrined  ! ! ! Was  the  letter  of  a friend 
thus  treasured  ? When  was  the  letter  of  a friend 
thus  answered  with  tears,  with  smiles,  with 
blushes,  and  with  sighs?  This,  this  is  love’s  own 
language.  Besides,  Glorvina  is  not  formed  for 
friendship  ; the  moderate  feelings  of  her  burning 
soul  are  already  divided  in  affection  for  her  fa- 
ther, and  grateful  esteem  for  her  tutor  ; and  she 
who,  when  loved,  must  be  loved  to  madness,  will 
scarcely  feel  less  passion  than  she  inspires. 

While  thought  after  thought  thus  chased  each 
other  down,  like  the  mutinous  billows  of  a stormy 
ocean,  1 continued  pacing  my  chamber  with  quick 
and  heavy  strides  ; forgetful  that  the  Prince’s 
room  lay  immediately  beneath  me.  Ere  that 
thought  occurred,  some  one  softly  opened  the 
door.  I turned  savagely  round — it  was  Glorvi- 
na ! Impulsively  I rushed  to  meet  her  ; but  im- 
pulsively recoiled  : while  she,  with  an  exclam- 
ation of  surprise  and  pleasure,  sprung  towards 
me,  and  by  my  sudden  retreat  would  have  fallen 
at  my  feet,  but  that  my  willing  arms  extended 
involuntarily  to  receive  her.  Yet,  it  was  no  long- 


144 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


er  the  almost  sacred  person  of  the  once  all-inno- 
cent, all-ingenuons  Glorvina  they  encircled ; but 
stil.  they  twined  round  the  loveliest  form,  the  most 
charming,  the  most  dangerous  of  human  beings 
The  enchantress ! — With  what  exquisite  mod 
esty  she  faintly  endeavoured  to  extricate  herselt 
from  my  embrace,  yet  with  what  willing  weakness, 
which  seemed  to  triumph  in  its  own  debility,  she 
panted  on  my  bosom,  wearied  by  the  exertion 
which  vainly  sought  her  release.  Oh ! at  that 
moment  the  world  was  forgotten — the  whole  uni- 
verse was  Glorvina!  My  soul’s  eternal  welfare 
was  not  more  precious  at  that  moment  than  Glor- 
vina ! while  my  passion  seemed  now  to  derive 
its  ardour  from  the  overflowing  energy  of  those 
bitter  sentiments  which  had  preceded  its  revival. 
Glorvina,  with  an  effort,  flung  herself  from  me. 
Virtue,  indignant  yet  merciful,  forgiving  while  it 
arraigned,  beamed  in  her  eyes.  I fell  at  her  feet ; 
I pressed  her  hand  to  my  throbbing  temples  and 
burning  lips.  “ Forgive  me,”  I exclaimed,  “ for 
I know  not  what  I do.”  She  threw  herself  on  a 
seat,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  while 
the  tears  trickled  through  her  fingers.  Oh!  there 
was  a time  when  tears  from  those  eyes — but  now 
they  only  recalled  to  my  recollection  the  last 
I had  seen  her  shed.  I started  from  her  feet  and 
walked  towards  the  window,  near  that  couch 
where  her  watchful  and  charitable  attention  first 
awakened  the  germ  of  gratitude  and  love  which 
has  since  blown  into  such  full,  such  fatal  exist- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


145 


ence.  I leaiiec.  my  head  against  the  window- 
frame  for  support,  its  painful  throb  was  so  vio- 
lent; 1 felt  as  though  it  were  lacerating  in  a 
thousand  places  ; and  the  sigh  which  involuntari- 
ly breathed  from  my  lips  seemed  almost  to  burst 
the  heart  from  whence  it  flowed. 

G lor  V in  a arose  : with  an  air  tenderly  compas- 
sionate, yet  reproachful,  she  advanced  and  took 
one  of  my  hands.  “My  dear  friend,’’  she  ex- 
claimed, “ what  is  the  matter?  has  anything  oc- 
curred to  disturb  you,  or  to  awaken  this  extraor- 
dinary emotion  ? Father  John  ! where  is  he  ? 
why  does  he  not  accompany  you  ? Speak  ! — 
does  any  new  misfortune  threaten  us  ? does  it 
touch  my  father  ? Oh  ! in  mercy  say  it  does  not  f 
but  release  me  from  the  torture  of  suspense.” 

“ No,  no,”  I peevishly  replied  ; “ set  your  heart 
at  rest,  it  is  nothing;  nothing  at  least  that  con- 
cerns you  ; it  is  me,  me  only  it  concerns.” 

“ And  therefore,  Mortimer,  is  it  nothing  to 
Glorvina,”  she  softly  replied,  and  with  one  of 
those  natural  motions  so  incidental  to  the  simpli- 
city of  her  manners,  she  threw  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  leaning  her  head  on  it  raised  her 
eloquent,  her  tearful  eyes  to  mine.  Oh  ! while 
the  bright  drops  hung  upon  her  cheek’s  faded 
rose,  with  what  difficulty!  restrained  the  impulse 
that  tempted  me  to  gather  them  with  my  lips ; 
while  she,  like  a ministering  angel,  again  took 
my  hand,  and  applying  her  fingers  to  my  wrist, 

%'OL.  II.  K 13 


146 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


said,  with  a sad  smile,  “ You  know  I am  a skil* 
ful  little  doctress.” 

The  feelings  I experienced  when  those  lovely 
fingers  first  applied  their  pressure  to  my  arm, 
rushed  on  my  recollection:  her  touch  had  lost 
nothing  of  its  electric  power;  my  emotions  at 
that  moment  were  indescribable. 

“Oh,  good  God,  how  ill  you  are!”  she  ex- 
claimed. “ How  wild  your  pulse  ; how  feverish 
your  looks  ! You  have  overheated  yourself;  you 
were  unequal  to  such  a journey  in  such  weather; 
you  who  have  been  so  lately  an  invalid.  I be- 
seech you  to  throw  yourself  on  the  bed,  and'Cn- 
deavour  to  take  some  repose  ; meantime  I will 
send  my  nurse  with  some  refreshment  to  you. 
How  could  I be  so  blind  as  not  to  see  at  once 
how  ill  you  were  !” 

Glad,  for  the  present,  of  any  pretext  to  conceal 
the  nature  of  my  real  disorder,  I confessed  I was 
indeed  ill,  (and,  in  fact,  I was  physically  as  well 
as  morally  so  ; for  my  last  day’s  journey  brought 
on  that  nervous  headach  I have  suffered  so  much 
from  ;)  while  she,  all  tender  solicitude  and  eom^ 
passion,  flew  to  prepare  me  a composing  draught. 
But  1 was  not  now  to  be  deceived  : this  was 
pity,  mere  pity.  Thus  a thousand  times  have  I 
seen  her  act  by  the  wretches  who  were  first  in- 
troduced to  her  notice  through  the  medium  of 
that  reputation  which  her  distinguished  humanity 
had  obtained  for  her  among  the  diseased  and  tin 
unfortunate. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


147 


I had  but  just  sunk  upon  the  bed,  overcome  by 
fatigue  and  the  vehemence  of  my  emotions,  when 
the  old  nurse  entered  the  room.  She  said  she 
had  brought  me  a composing  draught  from  the 
lady  Glorvina,  who  had  kissed  the  cup,  after  the 
old  Irish  fashion,*  and  bade  me  to  drink  it  for  her 
sake. 

“ Then  I pledge  her,”  said  I,  “ with  the  same 
truth  she  did  me »nd  I eagerly  quaffed  off  the 
nectar  her  hand  had  prepared.  Meantime  the 
nurse  took  her  station  by  the  bed-side  with  some 
appropriate  reference  to  her  former  attendance 
there,  and  the  generosity  with  which  that  attend- 
ance was  rewarded ; for  I had  imprudently  ap- 
portioned my  donation  rather  to  my  real  than 
apparent  rank.  _ 

While  I was  glad  that  this  talkative  old  woman 
had  fallen  in  my  way ; for  though  I knew  I had 
nothing  to  hope  from  that  incorruptible  fidelity 
which  was  grounded  on  her  attachment  to  her 
beloved  nursling,  and  her  affection  for  the  family 
she  had  so  long  served,  yet  I had  everything  to 
expect  from  the  garrulous  simplicity  of  her  char- 
acter, and  her  love  of  what  she  calls  Seanachus^ 
or  telling  long  stories  of  the  Inismore  family^:  - 
and  while  I was  thinking  how  I should  put  my 
Jesuitical  scheme  into  execution,  and  she  was 

* To  this  ancient  and  general  custom  Goldsmith  allud««> 
in  his  Deserted  Village  :-r- 

'^And  kissed  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest.” 


148 


THE  W LD  IRISH  GIRL. 


talking  as  usual  I know  not  what,  the  beautiful 

Breviare  du  Sentiment caught  my  eye  lying 
on  the  floor  : — Glorvina  must  have  dropped  it  on 
her  first  entrance.  1 desired  the  nurse  to  bring 
it  to  me  ; who  blessed  her  stars,  and  wondered 
how  her  child  could  be  so  careless : a thing  too 
she  valued  so  much.  At  that  moment  it  struck 
me  that  this  Brevaire,  the  furniture  of  the  houdoir^ 
the  vases,  and  the  fragment  of  a letter,  were  all 
connected  with  this  mysterious  friend,  this  “first 
and  best  of  men.  I shuddered  as  I held  it,  and 
forgot  the  snow-drops  it  contained ; yet,  assum- 
ing a composure  as  I examined  its  cover,  I asked 
the  nurse  if  she  thought  I could  procure  such  an- 
other in  the  next  market  town. 

The  old  woman  held  her  sides  while  she 
laughed  at  the  idea  ; then  folding  her  arms  on  her 
knees  with  that  gossiping  air  which  she  always 
assumed  when  in  a mood  peculiarly  loquacious, 
she  assured  me  that  such  a book  could  not  be  got 
in  all  Ireland  ; for  that  it  had  come  from  foreign 
parts  to  her  young  lady. 

“ And  who  sent  it  ?”  I demanded. 

“ Why,  nobody  sent  it,  (she  simply  replied,) 
he  brought  it  himself.” 

“Who?”  said  I. 

She  stammered  and  paused. 

“ Then,  I suppose,”  she  added,  “ of  course,  you 
never  heard” 

“ What  ?”  I eagerly  asked,  with  an  air  of  curi- 
osity and  amazement.  As  these  are  two  emo- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRI^ 


149 


lions  a common  mind  is  most  suscept.ble  of  feel- 
in<r  and  most  anxious  to  excite.  I found  little  dif- 
ficulty  in  artfully  leading  on  the  old  woman  by 
degrees,  till  at  last  1 obtained  from  her,  almosli 
unawares  to  herself,  the  following  particulars  : • 
On  a stormy  night,  in  the  spring  of  17 — ^ 
during  that  fatal  period  when  the  scarcely  cica- 
trised wounds  of  this  unhappy  country  hied  afresh 
beneath  the  uplifted  sword  of  civil  contention  ; 
when  the  bonds  of  human  amity  were  rent  asun- 
der, and  every  man  regarded  his  neighbour  with 
suspicion  or  considered  him  with  fear  ; a stran- 
ger of  noble  stature,  muffled  in  a long,  dark  cloak,, 
appeared  in  the  great  hall  of  Inismore,  and  re- 
quested an  interview  with  the  Prince.  The 
Prince  had  retired  to  rest,  and  being  then  in  an 
ill  state  of  health,  deputed  his  daughter  to  re- 
ceive the  unknown  visitant,  as  the  priest  was  ab- 
sent. The  stranger  was  shown  into  an  apart- 
ment adjoining  the  Prince’s,  where  Glorvina  re- 
ceived him,  and  having  remained  for  some  time 
with  him  retired  to  her  father’s  room;  and  again, 
after  a conference  of  some  minutes,  returned  to- 
the  stranger,  whom  she  conducted  to  the  Prince’s 
bedside.  On  the  same  night,  and  after  the  stran- 
ger had  passed  two  hours  in  the  Prince’s  cham- 
ber, the  nurse  received  orders  to  prepare  the  bed 
and  apartment  which  I now  occupy  for  this  mys- 
terious guest,  who  from  that  time  remained  near 
three  months  at  the  castle  ; leaving  it  only  occa* 

13* 


150 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


sionall}?  for  a few  days,  and  always  departing  and 
returning  under  the  veil  of  night. 

'Fhe  following  summer  he  repeated  his  visit ; 
bringing  with  him  those  presents  which  decorate 
Ch)rvina’s  boudoir,  except  the  carpet  and  vases, 
which  wer(^  brought  by  a person  who  disappear- 
ed as  soon  as  he  had  left  them.  During  both 
these  visits  he  gave  up  his  time  chiefly  to  Glor- 
vina  ; reading  to  her,  listening  to  her  music,  and 
walking  with  her  early  and  late,  but  never  with- 
out the  priest  or  nurse,  and  seldom  during  the  day. 

In  short,  in  the  furor  of  the  old  woman’s  gar- 
rulity, (who,  however,  discovered  that  her  own 
information  had  not  been  acquired  by  the  most 
justifiable  means,  having,  she  said,  by  chance, 
overheard  a conversation  which  passed  between 
the  stranger  and  the  Prince,)  I found  that  this 
mysterious  visitant  was  some  unfortunate  gentle- 
man who  had  attached  himself  to  the  rebellious 
faction  of  the  day,  and  who  being  pursued  near- 
ly to  the  gates  of  the  castle  of  Inismore,  had 
thrown  himself  on  the  mercy  of  the  Prince  ; 
who,  with  that  romantic  sense  of  honour  which 
distinguishes  his  chivalrous  character,  had  not 
violated  the  trust  thus  forced  on  him,  but  granted 
an  asylum  to  the  unfortunate  refugee  ; who,  by 
the  most  prepossessing  manners  and  eminent  en- 
dowments^ had  dazzled  the  fancy  and  won  the 
hearts  of  this  unsuspecting  and  credulous  family  ; 
while  over  the  minds  of  Glorvina  and  her  father 
he  had  obtained  a boundless  influence 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


151 


The  nurse  hinted  that  she  believed  it  was  still 
unsafe  for  the  stranger  to  appear  in  this  country 
for  that  he  was  more  cautious  of  concealing  him- 
self in  his  last  visit  than  his  first ; that  she  be- 
lieved he  lived  in  England  ; that  he  seemed  to' 
have  money  enough,  ^^for  he  threw  it  about  like  ' 
prince.’’'  Not  a servant  in  the  castle,  she  added, 
but  knew  well  enough  how  it  w^as  ; but  there  was 
not  one  but  would  sooner  die  than  betray  him. 
His  name  she  did  not  know  ; he  was  only  known 
by  the  appellation  of  the  gentleman.  He  was 
n(/t  young,  but  tall  and  very  handsome.  He  could 
not  speak  Irish,  and  she  had  reason  to  think  he 
had  lived  chiefly  in  America.  She  added,  that  I 
often  reminded  her  of  him,  especially  when  I 
smiled  and  looked  down.  She  was  not  certain 
whether  he  was  expected  that  summer  or  not ; 
but  she  believed  the  Prince  frequently  received 
letters  from  him. 

The  old  w^oman  was  by  no  means  aware  how 
deeply  she  had  been  betrayed  by  her  insatiate 
passion  for  hearing  herself  speak ; while  the 
curious  and  expressive  idiom  of  her  native  tongue 
gave  me  more  insight  into  the. whole  business 
than  the  most  laboured  phrase  or  minute  detail 
could  have  done.  By  the  time,  however,  she 
had  finished  her  narrative,  she  began  to  have 
some  “ compunctious  visitings  of  conscience 
she  made  me  pass  my  honour  I would  not  betray 
her  to  her  young  lady  ; for,  she  added,  that  if  it 
got  air  it  might  come  to  the  ears  of  Lord  M , 


153 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


who  was  the  prince’s  bitter  enemy ; and  that  it 
might  be  the  ruin  of  the  Pr.nce  ; with  a thousand 
other  wild  surmises  suggested  by  her  fears.  I 
again  repeated  my  assurances  of  secrecy  ; and 
the  sound  of  her  young  lady’s  bell  summoning 
her  to  the  Prince’s  room,  she  left  me,  not  for- 
oettino-  to  take  with  her  the  “ Breviare  du  Senti- 

O D 

rnent'^ 

Again  abandoned  to  my  wretched  self,  the  suc- 
ceeding hour  was  passed  in  such  a state  of  varied 
perturbation,  that  it  would  be  as  torturing  to  re- 
trace my  agonizing  and  successive  reflections  as 
it  would  be  impossible  to  express  them.  In 
short,  after  a thousand  vague  conjectures,  many 
to  the  prejudice,  and  a lingering  few  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  their  object,  1 was  led  to  believe  (fatal 
conviction  1)  that  the  virgin  rose  of  Glorvina’s 
aflection  had  already  shed  its  sweetness  on  a 
former,  happier  lover;  and  the  partiality  I had 
flattered  myself  in  having  awakened,  was  either 
the  result  of  natural  intuitive  coquetry,  or,  in  the 
long  absence  of  her  heart’s  first  object,  a tran- 
sient beam  of  that  fire,  which  once  illumined,  is 
so  difficult  to  extinguish,  and  which  was  nourish- 
e^d  by  my  resemblance  to  him  who  had  first  fan- 
ned it  into  life. — What ! / receive  to  my  heart  the 
faded  spark,  while  another  has  basked  in  the 
vital  flame  ! I contentedly  gather  this  after-blow 
of  tenderness,  when  another  has  inhaled  the 
very  essence  of  the  nectarious  blossoms  ? No ! 
like  the  suftering  mother,  who  wholly  resigned 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


153 


iinr  Dosom’s  idol  rather  than  divide  it  with  another, 
I will,  with  a single  effort,  tear  this  late  adored 
image  from  my  heart,  though  that  heart  break 
with  the  effort,  rather  than  feed  on  the  remnant 
of  those  favours  on  which  another  has  already 
feasted.  Yet  to  be  thus  deceived  by  a recluse, 
a child,  a novice  ! — /,  who,  turning  revoltingly 
from  the  hackneyed  artifices  of  female  depravity 
in  that  world  where  art  forever  reions,  souoht  in 
the  tenderness  of  secluded  innocence  and  intelli- 
gent simplicity  that  heaven  my  soul  had  so  long, 
so  vainly  panted  to  enjoy  ! Yet,  even  there — No  ! 
I cannot  believe  it  She ! Glorvina,  false,  de- 
ceptive ! Oh,  were  the  immaculate  spirit  of 
Truth  embodied  in  a human  form,  it  could  not 
wear  upon  its  radient  brow  a brighter,  stronger 
trace  of  purity  inviolable,  and  holy  innocence 
than  shines  in  the  seraph  countenance  of  Glor- 
vina! Besides,  she  never  said  she  loved  me. 
Said  God  of  heaven ! were  words  then  ne- 
cessary for  such  an  avowal!  Oh,  Glorvina! 
thy  melting  glances,  thy  insidious  smiles,  thy 
ardent  blushes,  thy  tender  sighs,  thy  touching 
softness,  and  delicious  tears  ; these,  these  are  the 
sweet  testimonies  to  which  my  heart  appeals. 
These  at  least  will  speak  for  me,  and  say  it  was 
not  the  breath  of  vain  presumption  that  nourished 
those  hopes  which  now,  in  all  their  \’igour,  perish 
by  the  chilling  blight  of  well-founded  jealousy 
and  mortal  disappointment. 

Two  hours  have  elapsed  since  the  nurse  left 


154 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


me,  supposing  me  to  be  asleep ; no  one  has  in 
traded,  and  I have  employed  the  last  hour  in  re* 
tracing  to  you  the  vicissitudes  of  this  eventful 
day.  You,  who  warned  me  of  my  fate,  should 
learn  the  truth  of  your  fatal  prophecy.  My  fa- 
ther’s too  ; but  he  is  avenged  ! and  I have  alrea- 
dy expiated  a deception,  which,  however  inno- 
cent, was  still  deception. 

IN  CONTINUATION. 

I had  written  thus  far,  when  some  one  tapped 
at  my  door,  and  the  next  moment  the  priest  en- 
tered : he  was  not  an  hour  arrived,  and  with  his 
usual  kindness  came  to  inquire  after  my  health, 
expressing  much  surprise  at  its  alteration,  which 
he  said  was  visible  in  my  looks.  “ But,  it  is 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at,”  he  added:  “ a man 
who  complains  for  two  days  of  a nervous  disor- 
der, and  yet  gallops,  as  if  for  life,  seven  miles  in 
a day  more  natural  to  the  torrid  zone  than  our 
polar  clime,  may  have  some  chance  of  losing  his 
life,  but  very  little  of  losing  his  disorder. He 
then  endeavoured  to  persuade  me  to  go  down  with 
him  and  take  some  refreshment,  for  1 had  tasted 
nothing  all  day,  save  Glorvina’s  draught ; but 
linding  me  averse  to  the  proposal,  he  sat  with 
me  till  he  was  sent  for  to  the  Prince’s  room.  As 
soon  as  he  was  gone,  with  that  restlessness  of 
body  which  ever  accompanies  a wretched  mind, 
I wandered  throuoh  the  deserted  rooms  of  this 

O 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


155 


vast  and  ruinous  edifice,  but  saw  nothing  of  Glor- 
vina.  The  sun  had  set,  all  was  gloomy  and  still, 
I took  my  hat  and  in  the  melancholy  maze  of 
twilight,  wandered  I knew  not,  cared  not  whith- 
er. I had  not,  however,  strayed  far  from  the 
ruins,  when  I perceived  the  little  postboy  gallop- 
ping  his  foaming  mule  over  the  drawbridge,  and 
the  next  moment  saw  Glorvina  gliding  beneath 
the  colonnade  (that  leads  to  the  chapel)  to  meet 
him.  I retreated  behind  a fragment  of  th%  ruins, 
and  observed  her  to  take  a letter  from  his  hand 
with  an  eager  and  impatient  air : ^^hen  she  had 
looked  at  the  seal,  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips  : 
then  by  the  faint  beams  of  the  retreating  light, 
she  opened  this  welcome  packet,  and  putting  an 
enclosed  letter  in  her  bosom,  endeavoured  to  read 
the  envelope  ; -but  scarcely  had  her  eye  glanced 
over  it,  than  it  fell  to  the  earth,  while  she,  cover- 
ing her  face  with  her  hands,  seemed  to  lean 
against  the  broken  pillar  near  which  she  stood  for 
support  Oh  ! was  this  an  emotion  of  over- 
whelming bliss,  or  chilling  disappointment  ? She 
again  took  the  paper,  and  still  holding  it  open  ih 
her  hand,  with  a slow  step  and  thoughtful  air, 
returned  to  the  castle  ; while  I flew  to  the  stables 
under  pretence  of  inquiring  from  the  post-boy  if 
there  were  any  letters  for  me.  The  lad  said  there 
was  but  one,  and  that,  the  postmaster  had  told 
him  was  an  English  one  for  the  lady  Glorvina. 
This  letter,  then,  though  it  could  not  have  been 
an  answer  to  that  1 had  se  her  writing,  waa 


156 


THE  WfLD  IRISH  GIRL. 


doubtless  from  the  n ysterious  friend^  wl.ose 
_ friendship,  “ like  gold,  though  not  so7iorous,  was 
indestructible'' ' 

My  doubts  were  now  all  lost  in  certain  convic- 
tion ; my  trembling  heart  no  longer  vibrated  be- 
tween a lingering  hope  and  a dreadful  fear.  I 
was  deceived  and  another  was  beloved.  That  sort 
of  sullen  firm  composure,  which  fixes  on  man 
when  he  knov/s  the  worst  that  can  occur,  took 
possesion  of  every  feeling,  and  steadied  that 
wild  throb  of  insupportable  suspense  which  had 
agitated  and  distracted  my  veering  soul;  while 
the  only  vacillation  of  mind  to  which  I was  sen- 
sible, was  the  uncertainty  of  whether  I should  or 
should  not  quit  the  castle  that  night.  Finally,  I 
resolved  to  act  with  the  cool  determination  of  a 
rational  being,  not  the  wild  impetuosity  of  a 
maniac.  I put  off  my  departure  till  the  following 
morning,  when  1 would  formally  take  leave  of  the 
Prince,  the  priest,  and  even  Glorvina  herself,  in 
the  presence  of  her  father.  Thus  firm  and  deci- 
ded, I returned  to  the  castle,  and  mechanically 
walked  towards  that  vast  apartment  where  1 had 
first  seen  her  at  her  harp,  soothing  the  sorrows  of 
parental  affliction  ; but  now  it  was  gloomy  and 
unoccupied  ; a single  taper  burned  on  a black 
marble  slab  before  a large  folio,  in  which  I sup- 
pose the  priest  had  been  looking ; the  silent  harp 
of  Glorvina  stood  in  its  usual  place.  I lied  to 
the  great  hall,  once  the  central  point  of  all  out 
so<'ial  joys,  but  it  was  also  dark  and  empty  ; the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


157 


whole  edifice  seemed  a desert.  I again  rushed 
from  its  portals,  and  wandered  along  the  sea-beat 
shore,  till  the  dews  of  night  and  the  spray  of  the 
swelling  tide,  as  it  broke  against  the  rocks,  had 
penetrated  through  my  clothes.  I saw  the  light 
trembling  in  the  casement  of  Glorvina’s  chambei 
long  after  midnight.  I heard  the  castle  clock 
fling  its  peal  over  every  passing  hour ; and  not 
till  the  faintly  awakening  beam  of  the  horizon 
streamed  on  the  eastern  wave,  did  I return 
through  the  castle’s  ever  open  portals,  and  steal 
to  that  room  I was  about  to  occupy  (not  to  slep  in) 
for  the  last  time  : a light  and  some  refreshment 
had  been  left  there  for  me  in  my  absence.  The 
taper  was  nearly  burned  out,  but  by  its  ex- 
piring flame  I perceived  a billet  lying  on  the  ta- 
ble. I opened  it  tremblingly.  It  was  from  Glor- 
vina,  and  only  a simple  inquiry  after  my  health, 
couched  in  terms  of  commonplace  courtesy.  I 
tore  it — it  was  the  first  she  had  ever  addressed 
to  me,  and  yet  I tore  it  in  a thousand  pieces.  I 
threw  myself  on  the  bed,  and  for  some  time 
busied  my  mind  in  conjecturing  whether  her  fa- 
ther sanctioned  or  her  preceptor  suspected  her  , 
attachment  to  this  fortunate  rebel.  1 was  almost 
convinced  they  did  not.  The  young,  the  profound 
deceiver ; she  whom  I had  thought 

S3  green  in  this  old  world.^’ 

Wearied  by  incessant  cogitation,  I at  last  teli 
into  a deep  sleep,  and  arose  about  two  hours- 

VOL.  II.  14 


158 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


back,  harassed  by  dreams  and  quite  unrefresliod  , 
since  when  I have  written  thus  far.  My  last 
night’s  resolution  remains  unchanged.  I have 
sent  my  compliments  to  inquire  after  the  Prince’s 
health,  and  to  request  an  interview  with  him. 
The  servant  has  this  moment  returned,  and  in- 
forms me  the  Prince  has  just  fallen  asleep  after 
having  had  a very  bad  night,  but  that  when  he 
awakens  he  shall  be  told  of  my  request.  I dared 
not  mention  Glorvina’s  name,  but  the  man  inform- 
ed me  she  was  then  sitting  by  her  father’s  bed- 
side, and  had  not  attended  matins.  At  breakfast 
I mean  to  acquaint  the  excellent  Father  John  of 
my  intended  departure.  Oh  ! how  much  of  the 
woman  at  this  moment  swells  in  my  heart.  There 
is  not  a being  in  this  family  in  whom  I have  not 
excited,  and  for  whom  I do  not  feel  an  interest. 
Poor  souls  ! they  have  almost  all  been  at  my  room 
door  this  morning  to  inquire  after  my  health,  ow- 
ing to  the  nurse’s  exaggerated  account : she  too, 
kind  creature,  has  already  been  twice  with  me 
before  I arose,  but  I affected  sleep.  Adieu ! I 

shall  despatch  this  to  you  from  M house.  I 

shall  then  have  seen  the  castle  of  Inismore  for 
the  last  time — the  last  time  ! ! 


H.  M. 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


I5d 


LETTER  XXIX. 

ro  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P. 

M House. 

It  is  all  over — ^tke  spell  is  dissolved,  and  the 
vision  forever  vanished  : yet  my  mind  is  not  what 
it  was,  ere  this  transieist  dream  of  bliss  “ wrapt 
it  in  Elysium.”  Then  1 neither  suffered  nor  en-  • 
joyed : now — ! 

When  I folded  my  letter  to  you,  I descended 
to  breakfast,  but  the  priest  did  not  appear,  and 
the  things  were  removed  untouched.  I ordered 
my  horse  to  be  got  ready,  and  waited  all  the  day 
in  expectation  of  a message  from  the  Prince, 
loitering,  wandering,  unsettled,  and  wretched, 
the  hours  dragged  on  ; no  message  came:  I fan- 
cied I was  impatient  to  receive  it,  and  to  be  gone; 
but  the  truth  is,  my  dear  friend,  I was  weak 
enough  almost  to  rejoice  at  the  detention.  While 
i walked  from  room  to  room  with  a book  in  my 
hand,  1 saw  no  one  but  the  servants,  who  looked 
full  of  mystery ; save  once,  when,  as  I stood  at 
tlie  top  of  the  corridor,  I perceived  Glorvina  leave 
her  father’s  room ; she  held  a handkerchief  to 
her  eyes,  and  passed  on  to  her  own  apartment. 
Oh ! why  did  I not  fly  and  wipe  away  those 
tears,  inquire  their  source,  and  end  at  once  the 
torture  of  suspense?  but  I had  not  power  to 
move.  The  dinner  hour  arrived ; I was  sum 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 

moned  to  the  parlour ; the  priest  met  me  at  th® 
tal)le,  shook  me  with  unusual  cordiality  by  the 
hand,  and  affectionately  inquired  after  my  health. 
He  then  became  silent  and  thouorhtfuL  and  had 

o ' 

the  air  of  a man  whose  heart  and  office  are  at 
variance;  who  is  deputed  with  a commission  his 
leelino;s  will  not  suffer  him  to  execute.  After  a 
long  pause,  he  spoke  of  the  Prince’s  illness,  the 
uneasiness  of  his  mind,  the  unpleasant  state  of 
his  affairs,  his  attachment  and  partiality  to  me, 
and  his  ardent  wish  always  to  have  it  in  his 
power  to  retaiii  me  withJiim;  then  paused  again, 
and  sighed,  and  again  endeavoured  to  speak,  but 
failed  in  the  effort.  I now  perfectly  understood 
the  nature  of  his  incoherent  speech  ; my  pride 
served  as  an  interpreter  between  his  feelings  and 
my  own,  and  I was  determined  to  save  his  hon- 
est heart  the  pang  of  saying,  “ Go,  you  are  no 
longer  a welcome  guest.” 

I told  him  then  in  a few  words,  that  it  was  my 
intention  to  have  left  the  castle  that  morning  for 

Bally , on  my  way  to  England;  but  that  I 

w^aited  for  an  opportunity  of  bidding  farewell  to 
the  Prince  : as  that,  however,  seemed  to  be  de- 
nied me,  I begged  that  he  (Father  John)  would 

have  the  goodness  to  say  for  me  all . Had 

my  life  depended  on  it,  I could  not  articulate  an- 
other word.  The  priest  arose  in  evident  emo- 
xion.  I,  too,  not  unagitated,  left  my  seat:  the 
good  man  took  my  hand,  and  pressed  it  affection- 
ately to  his  heart,  then  turned  aside.  I believe,  to 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


16^ 


conceal  he  moisture  of  his  eyes  ; nor  were  mine 
dry,  yet  they  seemed  to  burn  in  their  sockets. 
The  priest  then  put  a paper  in  the  hand  he  held, 
and  again  pressing  it  with  ardour,  hurried  away. 
I trembled  as  I opened  it ; it  was  a letter  from  the 
Prince,  containing  a bank  note,  a plain  ring  which 
he  constantly  wore,  and  the  following  lines 
written  with  the  trembling  hand  of  infirmity  or 
emotion  : 

“ Young  and  interesting  Englishman,  farewell ! 
Had  I not  known  thee,  I never  had  lamented 
that  God  had  not  blessed  me  with  a son. 

“ O’Melville, 

Prince  of  Inismore.” 

I sunk,  overcome  in  a chair.  When  1 could 
sufficiently  command  myself,  I wrote  with  my 
pencil  on  the  cover  of  the  Prince’s  letter  the  fol- 
lowino;  incoherent  lines  ; 

“ You  owe  me  nothing : to  you  I stand  indebt- 
ed for  life  itself,  and  all  that  could  once  render 
life  desirable.  With  existence  only  will  the  re- 
collection of  your  kindness  be  lost ; yet  though 
generously  it  was  unworthily  bestowed  ; for  it 
was  lavished  on  an  Impostor.  I am  not  what  1 
seem  : To  become  an  inmate  in  your  family,  to 
awaken  an  interest  in  your  estimation,  1 forfeited 
the  dignity  of  truth,  and  stooped  for  the  first  time 
to  the  meanness  of  deception.  Your  money, 
therefore,  I return,  but  your  ring — that  ring  so 


L 


14 


162 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


olteii  worn  by  you — worlds  would  not  tempi  me 
to  part  with. 

‘‘  I have  a father,  sir  ; this  father  once  so  dear, 
so  precious  to  my  heart!  but  since  I have  been 
your  guest,  Ae,  the  whole  world  was  forgotten. 
The  first  tie  of  nature  was  dissolved ; and  from 
your  hands  I seemed  to  have  received  a new  ex- 
istence. Best  and  most  oenerous  of  men,  be  this 
recollection  present  to  your  heart : Should  some 
incident  as  yet  unforeseen  discover  to  you  who 
and  what  I am,  remember  this — and  then  forgive 
him,  who,  with  the  profound est  sense  of  your 
goodness,  bids  you  a last  farewell.” 

When  1 had  finished  these  lines  written  with 
an  emotion  that  almost  rendered  them  illegible. 
I rung  the  bell  and  inquired  (from  the  servant 
who  answered)  for  the  priest : he  said  he  was 
shut  up  in  the  Prince’s  room. 

“ Alone,  with  the  Prince  ?”  said  I. 

“ No,”  he  returned,  ‘‘  for  he  had  seen  the  lady 
Glorvina  enter  at  the  same  time  with  Father 
John.”  I did  not  wish  to  trust  the  servant  with 
this  open  billet,  I did  not  wish  the  Prince  to  get 
it  till  I was  gone  : in  a word,  though  I was  re- 
solved to  leave  the  castle  that  evening,  yet  I did 
not  wish  to  go,  till,  for  the  last  time,  I had  seen 
Glorvina. 

I therefore  wrote  the  following  lines  in  French 
to  the  priest.  “ Suffer  me  to  see  you  ; in  a few 
minutes  1 shall  leave  Inismore  forever.”  As  I 
was  putting  the  billet  into  the  man  s hand,  the 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


163 


stable-boy  passed  the  window  ; I threw  up  the 
sash  and  ordered  him  to  lead  round  my  horse 
All  this  was  done  with  the  agitation  of  mind 
which  a criminal  feels  who  hurries  on  his  execu- 
tion, to  terminate  the  horrors  of  suspense. 

I continued  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in 
such  agony  of  feeling,  that  a cold  dew,  colder 
than  ice,  hung  upon  my  aching  brow.  I heard  a 
footstep  approach — I became  motionless ; the 
door  opened,  and  the  priest  appeared,  leading  in 
Glorvina,  God  of  Heaven  ! The  priest  support- 
ed her  on  his  arm,  the  veil  was  drawn  over  her 
eyes  ; I could  not  advance  to  meet  them,  I stood 
spellbound, — they  both  approached  ; I had  not 
the  power  to  raise  my  eyes.  “ You  sent  for  me,’’ 
said  the  priest,  in  a faltering  accent.  I presented 
him  my  letter  for  the  Prince ; suffocation  choked 
my  utterance  ; I could  not  speak.  He  put  the  let- 
ter in  his  bosom,  and  taking  my  hand,  said,  “You 
must  not  think  of  leaving  this  evening  ; the  Prince 
will  not  hear  of  it.”  While  he  spoke  my  horse 
passed  the  window  ; I summoned  up  those  spirits 
my  pride,  my  wounded  pride,  retained  in  its  ser- 
vice. “ It  is  necessary  I should  depart  immedi- 
ately,” said  I,  “ and  the  sultriness  of  the  weather 
renders  the  evening  preferable.”  I abruptly  pau- 
sed— I could  not  finish  the  sentence,  simple  as  it 
was. 

“ Then,”  said  the  priest,  “ any  evening  will  dj 
as  well  as  this.”  But  Glorvina  spoke  not ; and 
I answered  with  vehemence,  that  I should  have 


164 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


been  off  lon^  since  : and  my  determination  is  now 
fixed. 

“ If  you  are  thus  'positive^'  said  the  priest,  sur- 
prised by  a manner  so  unusual,  “ your  friend, 
your  pupil  here,  who  came  to  second  her  father’s 
request,  must  change  her  solicitations  to  a last 
farewell.” 

Glorvina’s  head  reposed  on  his  shoulder ; her 
face  was  enveloped  in  her  veil  ; he  looked  on 
her  with  tenderness  and  compassion,  and  I re- 
peated, a “ last  farewell  !”  Glorvina,  you  will  at 
least  then  say,  “ Farewell.  The  veil  fell  from 
her  face.  God  of  Heaven,  what  a countenance  ! 
In  the  universe  I saw  nothing  but  Glorvina ; such 
as  I had  once  believed  her,  my  own,  my  loving  and 
beloved  Glorvina,  my  tender  friend,  and  impas- 
sioned mistress.  I fell  at  her  feet ; I seized  her 
hands  and  pressed  them  to  my  burning  lips.  I 
heard  her  stifled  sobs  ; her  tears  of  soft  com- 
passion fell  upon  my  cheek  ; I thought  them  tears 
of  love,  and  drew  her  to  my  breast ; but  the 
priest  held  her  in  one  arm,  while  with  the  other 
he  endeavoured  to  raise  me,  exclaiming  in  violent 
emotion,  “ O God,  I should  have  foreseen  .this  ! 
I,  I alone  am  to  blame.  Excellent  and  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  dearly  belpvcd  child  !”  and  at 
the  same  moment  he  pressed  us  both  to  his  pa- 
ternal bosom.  The  heart  of  Glorvina  throbbed 
to  mine,  our  tears  flowed  together,  our  sighs 
mingled.  The  priest  sobbed  aver  us  like  a child. 
It  was  a blissful  agony ; but  it  was  insupportable 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


165 


Then  to  have  died  would  have  been  most  blessed 
The  priest  dispelled  the  transient  dream.  He 
forcibly  put  me  from  him.  He  stifled  the  voice 
of  nature  and  pity  in  his  breast.  His  air  was 
sternly  virtuous — “ Go,”  said  he,  but  he  spoke  in 
vain.  I still  clung  to  the  drapery  of  Glorvina’s 
robe  ; he  forced  me  from  her,  and  she  sunk  on  a 
couch.  “ I now,”  he  added,  “ behold  the  fatal 
error  to  which  I have  been  an  unconscious  acces- 
sary. Thank  God,  it  is  retrievable  ; go,  amiable, 
but  imprudent  young  man  ; it  is  honour,  it  is  vir- 
tue commands  your  departure.” 

While  he  spoke  he  had  almost  dragged  me  to-^ 
the  hall.  “ Stay,”  said  I,  in  a faint  voice,  “ let 
me  but  speak  to  her.” 

“ It  is  in  vain,”  replied  the  inexorable  priest, 

“ for  she  can  never  be  yours ; then  spare  7ier, 
spare  yourself. 

“ Never  !”  I exclaimed. 

“ Never,”  he  firmly  replied. 

I burst  from  his  grasp  and  flew  to  Glorvina.  I 
snatched  her  to  my  breast  and  wildly  cried, 

“ Glorvina,  is  this  then  a last  farewell  ?”  She 
answered  not,  but  her  silence  was  eloquent. 

“ Then,”  said  T,  pressing  her  more  closely  to  my 
heart,  farewell  forever 

IN  CONTINUATION. 

I mourned  the  horsci  that  waited  for  me  at  the 
door,  and  galloppe  d bfl’;  but  with  the  darkness  of 


166 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  night  I returned,  and  all  night  I wandered 
about  the  environs  of  Inismore  : to  the  lastui 
watched  the  light  of  Glorvina’s  window.  When 
it  was  extinguished,  it  seemed  as  though  I parted 
from  her  again.  A gray  dawn  was  already  iDreak- 
ing  to  the  mists  of  obscurity.  Some  poor  pea- 
sants were  already  going  to  the  labours  of  the 
day.  It  was  requisite  I should  go.  Yet  when  1 
ascended  the  mountain  of  Inismore  I involuntarily 
turned,  and  beheld  those  dear  ruins  which  I had 
first  entered  under  the  influence  of  such  powerful, 
such  prophetic  emotion.  What  a train  of  recol- 
lections rushed  on  my  mind,  what  a climax  did 
they  form  ! I turned  away  my  eyes,  sick,  sick  at 
heart,  and  pursued  my  solitary  journey.  Within 
twelve  miles  of  M — house,  as  1 reached  an  emi- 
nence, I again  paused  to  look  back,  and  caught  a 
last  view  of  the  mountain  of  Inismore.  It  seemed 
to  float  like  a vapour  on  the  horizon.  I took  a 
last  farewell  of  this  almost  loved  mountain.  Once 
it  had  risen  on  my  gaze  like  the  pharos  to  my 
haven  of  enjoyment  ; for  never,  until  this  sad 
moment,  had  I beheld  it  but  with  transport. 

On  my  arrival  here  I found  a letter  from  my 
father,  simply  stating  that  by  the  time  it  reached 
me  he  would  probably  be  on  his  way  to  Ireland, 
accompanied  by  my  intended  bride,  and  her 
father,  concluding  thus  : “In  beholding  you 
honourably  and  happily  established,  thus  secure 
in  a liberal,  a noble  independence,  the  throb  of 
incessant  solicitude  you  have  hitherto  awakened 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


167 


will  at  last  be  stilled^  and  your  prudeut  coinpli- 
auce  ill  this  instance  will  bury  in  eternal  oblivion 
the  sufferings,  the  anxieties  which,  with  all  your 
native  virtue  and  native  talent,  your  imprudence 
has  hitherto  caused  to  the  heart  of  an  affectionate 
and  indulgent  father.” 

This  letter,  which  even  a few  days  back  would 
have  driven  me  to  distraction,  I now  read  with 
the  apathy  of  a stoic.  It  is  to  me  a matter  of  in- 
difference how  I am  disposed  of.  I have  no 
wish,  no  will  of  my  own. 

To  the  return  of  that  mortal  torpor  fpm  which 
a late  fatally  cherished  sentiment  had  roused  me, 
is  now  added  the  pang  of  my  life’s  severest  dis- 
appointment, like  the  dying  wretch  who  is  only 
roused  from  total  insensibility,  by  the  quivering 
pains  which,  at  intervals  of  fluttering  life,  shoot 
through  his  languid  frame. 

o o 

IN  CONTINUATION. 

It  is  two  days  since  I began  this  letter,  yet  1 
am  still  here  ; I have  not  power  to  move,  though 
I know  not  what  secret  spell  detains  me.  But 
whither  shall  I go,  and  to  what  purpose  ? the  tie 
which  once  bound  me  to  physical  and  moral  good, 
to  virtue  and  felicity,  is  broken,  for  ever  broken. 
My  mind  is  changed,  dreadfully  changed  within 
these  few  davs.  I am  ill  too,  a burning  fever 

J 7 ^ Q 

preys  upon  the  very  springs  of  life  ; all  around 
me  is  solitary  and  desolate.  Sometimes  my  brain 


168 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


seems  on  fire,  and  hideous  phantoms  float  before 
my  eyes  ; either  my  senses  are  disordered  by  in- 
disposition, or  the  hand  of  heaven  presses  heavily 
on  me.  My  blood  rolls  in  torrents  through  my 
veins.  Sometimes  I think  it  should^  it  mast  have 
vent.  I feel  it  is  in  vain  to  think  that  I shall  ever 
be  fit  for  the  discharge  of  any  duty  in  this  life.  I 
shall  hold  a place  in  the  creation  to  which  I am 
a dishonour.  I shall  become  a burthen  to  the 
few  who  are  obliged  to  feel  an  interest  in  my 
welfare. 

It  is  the  duty  of  every  one  to  do  that  which 
his  situation  requires,  to  act  up  to  the  measure 
of  judgment  bestowed  on  him  by  Providence. 
Should  I continue  to  drag  on  this  load  of  life,  it 
would  be  for  its  wretched  remnant  a mere  animal 
existence.  A moral  death!  What!  I become  ajjain 
like  the  plant  I tread  under  my  feet ; endued  with 
a vegetative  existence,  but  destitute  of  all  sensation 
of  all  feeling.  I who  have  tasted  heaven’s  own 
bliss ; who  have  known,  oh  God  ! that  even  the 
recollection,  the  simple  recollection  should  difluse 
through  my  chilled  heart,  through  my  whole  lan- 
guid frame  such  cheering  renovating  ardour. 

I have  gone  over  calmly,  deliberately  gone 
over  every  circumstance  connected  with  the  re- 
cent dream  of  my  life.  It  is  evident  that  the 
object  of  my  heart’s  first  election  is  that  of  her 
father’s  choice.  Her  passion  for  me,  for  I swear 
most  solemnly  she  loved  me  : Oh,  in  that  I could 
not  be  deceived  ; every  look,  every  word  betrayed 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  169 

it;  her  passior  for' me  was  a paroxysm.  Her 
tender,  her  impassioned  nature  required  some 
object  to  receive  the  glowing  ebullitions  of  its 
affectionate  feelings ; and  in  the  absence  of 
another,  in  that  unrestrained  intimacy  by  which 
we  were  so  closely  associated  ; in  that  sympathy 
of  pursuit  which  existed  betvreen  us,  they  were 
lavished  on  me.  I was  the  substituted  toy  of  the 
moment.  And  shall  I then  sink  beneath  a wo- 
man’s  whim,  a woman’s  infidelity,  unfaithful  to 
another  as  to  me  ? I who,  from  my  early  days, 
have  suffered  by  her  arts  and  my  own  credulity  ? 
But  what  were  all  my  sufferings  to  this  ? A drop 
of  water  to  “ the  multitudinous  ocean.”  Yet  in 
the  moment  of  a last  farewell  she  wept  so  bit- 
terly ! tears  of  pity  ! Pitied  and  deceived  ! 

I am  resolved  I will  offer  myself  an  expiatory 
sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  parental  wrongs.  The 
father  whom  I have  deceived  and  injured  shall 
be  retributed.  This  moment  I have  received  a 
letter  from  him,  the  most  affectionate  and  tender ; 
he  is  arrived  in  Dublin,  and  with  him  Mr.  D — , 
and  his  daughter ! It  is  well ! If  he  requires  it 
the  moment  of  our  meeting  shall  be  that  of  my 
immolation.  Some  act  of  desperation  would  b« 
now  most  consonant  to  my  soul ! 

Adieu. 

H.  M 


IS 


170 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


LETTER  XXX. 

TO  J.  D.  ESQ.,  M.  P 

Dublin. 

I AM  writing  to  you  from  the  back-room  of  a 
noisy  hotel  in  the  centre  of  a great  and  bustling 
city : my  only  prospect  the  gloomy  walls  of  the 
surroundinor  houses.  What  a contrast ! Where 
now  are  those  refreshing  scenes  on  which  my 
rapt  gaze  so  lately  dwelt — those  wild  sublimities 
of  nature — the  stupendous  mountain,  the  Alpine 
cliff,  the  boundless  ocean,  and  the  smiling  vale 
Where  are  those  original  and  simple  characters 
those  habits,  those  manners,  to  me  at  least  so 
striking  and  so  new  ? — All  vanished  like  a 
dream  ! — 

The  baseless  fabric  of  a vision 

I arrived  here  late  in  the  evening,  and  found 
my  father  waiting  to  receive  me.  Happily  the 
rest  of  the  party  were  gone  to  the  theatre  ; for 
his  agitation  was  scarcely  less  than  my  own. 
You  know  that,  owing  to  our  late. misunderstand- 
ing, it  is  some  months  since  we  met.  He  fell  on 
my  neck  and  wept.  I was  quite  overcome.  He 
was  shocked  at  my  altered  appearance,  and  his 
tenderest  solicitudes  were  awakened  for  my 
health.  I was  so  vanquished  by  his  goodness, 
that  more  than  once  I was  on  the  point  of  con- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


171 


fessing  all  to  him.  It  was  my  good  angel  checked 
the  imprudent  avowal : for  what  purpose  could  it 
now  serve,  but  to  render  me  more  contemptible 
in  his  eyes,  and  to  heighten  his  antipathy  against 
those  who  have  been  in  some  deoree  the  uncoil- 
scious  accessaries  to  my  egregious  folly  and 
incurable  imprudence.  But  does  he  feel  an  an- 
tipathy against  the  worthy  Prince  ? Can  it  lie 
otherwise  ? Have  not  all  his  conciliatory  offers 
been  rejected  with  scorn? — Yet  to  me  he  never 
mentioned  the  Prince’s  name  ; this  silence  sur- 
prises me — long  may  it  continue.  I dare  not  trust 
myself.  In  your  bosom  only  is  the  secret  safely 
reposed. 

As  I had  rode  day  and  night  since  I left  M— - 
house,  weariness  and  indisposition  obliged  me 
almost  on  my  arrival  to  go  to  bed  : my  father  sat 
by  my  side  till  the  return  of  the  party  from  the 
theatre.  What  plans  for  my  future  aggrandize- 
ment and  happiness  did  his  parental  solicitude 
canvass  and  devise  ! the  prospect  of  my  brilliant 
establishment  in  life  seems  to  have  given  hipi  a 
new  sense  of  being.  On  our  return  to  England, 

I am  to  set  up  for  the  borough  of  . My 

talents  are  calculated  for  the  senate  : fame,  dig- 
nity, and  emolument,  are  to  wait  upon  their  suc- 
cessful exertion.  I am  to  become  an  object  of 
popular  favour  and  royal  esteem  ; and  all  this 
time,  in  the  fancied  triumph  of  his  parental  hopes, 
he  sees  not  that  the  heart  of  their  object  is 
breaking. 


172 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Were  you  to  hear  him ! were  you  to  see  him . 
What  a father  ! what  a man  ! Such  intelliorence — ■ 

o 

such  abilities.  A mind  so  dignified — a heart  so 
tender!  and  still  retaining  all  the  ardour,  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth.  In  what  terms  he  spoke 
of  my  elected  bride  ! He  indeed  dwelt  chiefly  on 
her  personal  charms,  and  the  simplicity  of  her 
unmodified  character.  Alas  ! I once  found  both 
united  to  genius  aud  sensibility, 

“ How  delightful,  (he  exclaimed)  to  form  this 
young  and  ductile  mind,  to  mould  it  to  your  de- 
sires, to  breathe  inspiration  into  this  lovely  image 
of  primeval  innocence,  to  give  soul  to  beauty,  and 
intelligence  to  simplicity ; to  watch  the  rising 
progress  of  your  grateful  efforts,  and  finally  clasp 
to  your  heart  that  perfection  you  have  yourself 
created.” 

And  this  was  spoken  with  an  energy,  an  en- 
thusiasm, as  though  he  had  himself  experienced 
all  the  pleasure  he  now  painted  for  me.  Hap- 
pily, however,  in  the  warmth  of  his  own  feelings, 
he  perceived  not  the  coldness,  the  torpidity  of  his 
son’s. 

They  are  fast  weaving  for  me  the*  web  of  my 
destiny.  I look  on  and  take  no  part  in  the  work. 
It  is  over — I have  been  presented  in  form.  They 
say  she  is  beautiful — it  may  be  so  ; — ^but  the  blind 
man  cannot  be  persuaded  of  the  charms  of  the 
rose,  when  his  finger  is  wounded  by  its  thorns. 
She  met  me  with  some  confusion,  which  was 
natural,  considering  she  had  been  “ won  iin* 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  173 

BOiicrht.”  Yet  I thoiiorht  it  was  the  bashfulness 

O O ^ 

of  a hoyden,  rather  than  that  soul-born  delicate 
bashfulness  which  I have  seen  accompanied  with 
every  grace.  How  few  there  are  who  do  or  can 
distinguish  this  in  woman  ; yet  in  nature  there  is 
nothing  more  distinct  than  the  modesty  of  senti- 
ment a:d  of  constitution. 

The  father  was,  as  usual,  boisterously  good- 
humoured,  and  vulgarly  pleasant  ;*he  talked  over 
our  sporting  adventures  last  winter,  as  if  the 
topic  were  exhaustless.  For  my  part,  I was  so 
silent,  that  my  father  looked  uneasy,  and  I then 
made  amends  for  my  former  taciturnity  by  talking 
incessantly,  and  on  every  subject,  with  vehe- 
mence and  rapidity.  A woman  of  common  sense 
or  common  delicacy,  would  have  been  disgusted  , 
but  she  is  a child.  They  would  fain  drag  me 
after  them  into  public,  but  my  plea  of  ill  health 
has  been  received  by  my  indulgent  father.  My 
gay  young  mistress  seems  already  to  consider  me 
as  her  husband,  and  treats  me  accordingly  with 
indifference.  In  short,  she  finds  that  love  in  the 
solitude  of  the  country,  and  amidst  the  pleasures 
of  the  town,  is  a very  different  sentiment;  yet  her 
vanity,  I believe,  is  piqued  by  my  neglect ; for 
to-day  she  said,  when  I excused  myself  from  ac- 
companying her  to  a morning  concert.  Oh  ! I 
should  much  rather  have  your  father  with  me,  he 
is  the  younger  man  of  the  two : I indeed  never 
saw  him  in  such  health  and  spirits  ; he  seems  to 
tread  on  air.  Oh  ! that  he  were  my  rival ' my 


174 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


s'uccessfiil  rival ! In  the  present  niorb  d state  of 
my  feelings  I give  in  to  every  thing  ; but  wlien 
it  comes  to  a crisis,  will  this  stupid  acquiescence 
still  befriend  their  wishes?  Impossible  ! 

IN  CONTINUATION. 

I have  had  a short  but  extraordinary  conversa- 
tion with  my  father.  Would  you  believe  it  ? he 
has  for  some  time  back  cherished  an  attachment 
of  the  tenderest  nature  ; but  to  his  heart,  the  in- 
terests of  his  children  have  ever  been  an  object 
of  the  first  and  dearest  concern.  Having  secured 
their  establishment  in  life,  and  as  he  hopes  and 
believes,  effected  their  happiness,  he  now  feels 
himself  warranted  in  consulting  his  own.  In 
short,  he  has  given  me  to  understand  that  there 
is  a probability  of  his  marriage  with  a very  amia- 
ble and  deserving  person,  closely  following  after 
my  brother’s  and  mine.  The  lady’s  name  he  re- 
fused to  mention,  until  every  thing  was  finally 
arranged  ; and  whoever  she  is,  I suspect  her  rank 
is  inferior  to  her  merits,  for  he  said,  “ The  world 
will  call  the  union  disproportioned — dispropor- 
tioned  in  every  sense  ; but  I must  in  this  in- 
stance, prefer  the  approval  of  my  own  heart  to 
the  world’s  opinion.”  He  then  added,  (equivo- 
cally) that  had  he  been  able  to  follow  me  imme- 
diately to  Ireland,  as  fe  had  at  first  proposed,  he 
would  have  related  to  me  some  circumstances  of 
peculiar  interest,  but  that  I should  yet  know  all 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


175 


and  seemed,  I thought,  to  lament  that  disparity  of 
character  between  rnr  brother  and  him,  which 
prohibited  that  flow  of  confidence  his  heart  seems 
panting  to  indulge  in.  You  know  Edward  takes 
no  pains  to  conceal  that  he  smiles  at  those  ardent 
virtues  in  his  father’s  character,  to  which  the 
phlegmatic  temperament  of  his  own  gives  the 
name  of  romance. 

The  two  fathers  settle  every  thing  as  they 
please.  A property  which  fell  to  my  father  a 
few  weeks  back,  by  the  death  of  a rich  maiden 
aunt,  with  every  thing  not  entailed,  he  has  made 
over  to  me,  even  during  his  life.  Expostulation 
was  in  vain,  he  would  not  hear  me  : — for  himself 
he  has  retained  nothing  but  his  purchased  estates 
in  Connauo'ht,  which  are  infinitely  more  exten- 
sive  than  that  he  possesses  by  inheritance.  What 
if  he  resides  at  the  Lodge,  in  the  very  neighbour- 
hood of ? Oh ! my  good  friend,  I fear  I am 

deceiving  myself : I fear  I am  preparing  for  the 
heart  of  the  best  of  fathers,  a mortal  disappoint- 
ment. When  the  throes  of  wounded  pride  shall 
have  subsided,  when  the  resentments  of  a doat- 
ing,  a deceived  heart,  shall  have  gradually  abated, 
and  the  recollection  of  former  blisses  shall  have 
soothed  away  the  pangs  of  recent  suffering;  will 
1 then  submit  to  the  dictates  of  an  imperious  duty, 
or  resign  myself  unresisting  to  the  influence  of 
morbid  apathy  ? 

Sometimes  my  father  fixes  his  eyes  so  tenderly 
on  me,  yet  with  a look  as  if  he  would  search  to 


176 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


the  most  secret  folds  of  my  heart.  He  has  never 
once  asked  my  opinion  of  my  elected  bride,  who, 
gay  and  happy  as  the  first  circles  of  this  dissipa- 
ted city  can  make  her,  cheerfully  receives  the 
plea  which  ill  health  affords  (attributed  to  a heavy 
cold)  of  not  attending  her  in  her  pursuit  of  plea- 
sure. The  fact  is,  1 am  indeed  ill  ; my  mind  and 
body  seem  declining  together,  and  nothing  in  this 
world  can  give  me  joy,  but  the  prospect  of  iu 
delivery. 

By  this  I suppose  the  mysterious  friend  is  ar- 
rived. It  was  expedient,  therefore,  that  I should 

be  dismissed.  By  this  I suppose  she  is 

So  closely  does  my  former  weakness  cling  round 
my  heart,  that  I cannot  think  of  it  without  mad- 
ness. 

After  having  contemplated  for  a few  minutes 
the  sun’s  cloudless  radiancy,  the  impression  left 
on  the  averted  gaze  is  two  dark  spots,  and  the 
dazzled  organ  becomes  darkened  by  a previous 
excess  of  lumination.  It  is  thus  with  my  mind  ; 
its  present  gloom  is  proportioned  to  its  former 
light.  Oh  ! it  was  too,  too  much  ! Rescued  from 
that  moral  death,  that  sicklied  satiety  of  feeling, 
that  state  of  chill,  hopeless  existence,  in  which 
the  torpid  faculties  were  impalpable  to  every  im- 
pression, when  to  breathe,  to  move,  constituted 
all  the  powers  of  being:  and  then  suddenly,  as 
if  by  intervention  of  Providence  ' (and  what  an 
agent  did  it  appoint  for  the  execution  of  its  divine 
will  ')  raised  to  the  summit  of  human  thought, 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


177 


human  feelings  human  felicity,  only  again  to  be 

plunged  in  endless  night.  It  was  too  much. 
#*##****  # 

Good  God ! would  you  believe  it ! My  father 
is  gone  to  M house,  to  prepare  for  the  recep- 

tion of  the  bridal  party.  We  are  to  follow,  and 
he  proposes  spending  the  summer  there  ; there 

too,  he  says,  my  marriage  with  Miss  D is  to 

be  celebrated  ; he  wishes  to  conciliate  the  good 
will,  not  only  of  the  neighbouring  gentry,  but  of 
his  tenantry  in  general,  and  thinks  this  will  be  a 
fair  occasion.  Well  be  it  so  ; but  I shall  not  hold 
myself  answerable  for  the  consequences : my  des- 
tiny is  in  their  hands — let  them  look  to  the  result. 

Since  my  father  left  us,  I am  of  necessity 
obliged  to  pay  some  attention  to  his  friends ; but 
1 should  be  a mere  automaton  by  the  side  of  my 
gay  mistress,  did  I not  court  an  artificial  flow  of 
spirits,  by  means  to  me  the  most  detestable.  In 
short,  I generally  contrive  to  leave  my  senses  be- 
nind  me  at  the  drinking  table  ; or  rather  my  rea- 
son and  my  spirits,  profiting  by  its  absence,  are 
roused  to  boisterous  anarchy : my  bride  [my 
bride !)  is  then  quite  charmed  with  my  gaiety, 
and  fancies  she  is  receiving  the  homage  of  a 
lover,  when  she  is  insulted  by  the  extravagance 
of  a maniac  ; but  she  is  a simple  child,  and  her 
father  is  an  insensible  fool.  God  knows  how  little 
of  my  thoughts  are  devoted  to  either.  Yet  the 
girl  is  much  followed  for  her  beauty,  and  the 
splendid  figure  which  the  fortune  of  the  father 
M 


178  TflE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.. 

enables  them  to  make,  has  procured  them  uni 

versal  attention  from  persons  of  the  first  rank. 
#*#****#  • 

A thousand  times  the  dream  of  short  slumbers 
gives  her  to  my  arms  as  I last  beheld  her.  A 
thousand  times  I am  awakened  from  a heavy  un- 
refreshing  sleep  by  the  fancied  sound  of  her  harp 
and  voice.  There  was  one  old  Irish  air  she  used 
to  sing  like  an  angel,  and  in  the  idiom  of  her  na 
tional  music  sighed  out  certain  passages  with  a 
heart-breaking  thrill,  that  used  to  rend  my  very 
soul!  Well,  this  song  I cannot  send  from  my 
memory  ; it  breathes  around  me,  it  dies  upon  my 
ear,  and  in  the  weakness  of  emotion  I weep — 
weep  like  a child.  Oh ! this  cannot  be  much 
longer  endured.  I have  this  moment  received 
your  letter  ; I feel  all  the  kindness  of  your  inten- 
tion, but  I must  insist  on  your  not  coming  over ; 
it  would  now  answer  no  purpose.  Besides,  a new 
plan  of  conduct  has  suggested  itself.  In  a word, 
my  father  shall  know  all:  my  unfortunate  adven- 
ture may  come  to  his  ears  : it  is  best  he  should 
know  it  from  myself.  I will  then  resign  my  fate 
into  his  hands  : surely  he  will  not  forget  I am 
still  his  son.  Adieu. 

H.  M 


CONCLUSION. 


A few  days  after  the  departure  of  the  Earl  of 
M.  from  Dublin,  the  intended  father-in-law  of  his 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


179 


son,  weary  of  a tcwn-life,  to  which  he  had 
hitherto  been  unaccustomed,  proposed  that  they 
should  surprise  the  earl  at  M house,  with- 

out waiting  for  that  summons  which  was  to  have 
governed  their  departure  for  Connaught. 

His  young  and  thoughtless  daughter,  eager 
only  after  novelty,  was  charmed  by  a plan  which 
promised  a change  of  scene  and  variety  of  life. 
The  unfortunate  lover  of  Glorvina  fancied  he 
gave  a reluctant  compliance  to  the  proposal 
which  coincided  but  too  closely  with  the  secret 
desires  of  his  soul. 

This  inconsiderate  project  was  put  into  execu- 
tion almost  as  soon  as  formed.  Mr.  D.  and  his 
daughter  went  in  their  own  carriage  ; Mr.  M. 
followed  on  horseback.  On  their  arrival,  they 

found  M house  occupied  by  workmen  of 

every  description,  and  the  Earl  of  M absent. 

Mr.  Clendinning,  his  lordship’s  agent,  had  not 
returned  from  England  ; and  the  steward,  who 
had  been  but  lately  appointed  to  the  office,  in- 
formed the  travellers  that  Lord  M.  had  only  been 

one  day  at  M house,  and  had  removed  a 

few  miles  up  the  country  to  a hunting-lodge  until 
it  should  be  ready  for  the  reception  of  the  family. 
Mr.  D.  insisted  on  going  on  to  the  hunting-lodge. 
Mr.  M.  strenuously  opposed  the  intention,  and 
with  difficulty  prevailed  on  the  thoughtless  father 

and  volatile  daughter  to  stop  at  M house, 

while  he  went  in  search  of  its  absent  lord.  It 
was  early  in  the  day  when  they  had  arrived,  and 


180 


rHE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


when  Mr.  M.  had  criven  orders  for  their  accom- 
modal  ion,  he  se'  out  for  the  Lodge. 

Prom  the  time  the  unhappy  M.  had  come 
within  the  sight  of  those  scenes  which  recalled 
all  the  recent  circumstances»of  his  life  to  memo- 
ry, his  heart  had  throbbed  with  a quickened 

pulse  ; even  the  scenery  of  M house  had 

awakened  his  emotion  ; his  enforced  return 
thither ; his  brief  and  restless  residence  there ; 
and  the  eaoer  delight  with  which  he  flew  from 
the  desolate  mansion  of  his  father  to  the  endear- 
ing circle  of  Inismore  all  rushed  to  his  memory, 
and  awakened  that  train  of  tender  recollection  he 
had  lately  endeavoured  to  stifle.  Happy  to  seize 
on  an  occasion  of  escaping  from  the  restraints 
the  society  of  his  insensible  companions  imposed, 
happier  still  to  have  an  opportunity  afforded  him 
of  visiting  the  neighbourhood  of  Inismore,  every 
step  of  his  journey  to  the  Lodge  was  marked  by 
the  renewed  existence  of  some  powerful  and  la- 
tent emotion  ; arid  the  latent  agitation  of  his 
heart  and  feelings  had  reached  their  acme  by  the 
time  he  had  arrived  at  the  gate  of  that  avenue 
from  which  the  mountains  of  inismore  were  dis- 
cernible. 

When  he  had  reached  the  Lodge,  a young  lad, 
who  was  working  in  the  grounds,  replied  to  his 
inquiries,  that  an  old  woman  was  its  only  resident, 
that  the  ancient  steward  was  dead,  and  that  Lord 
M.  had  only  remained  there  an  hour. 

This  last  intelligence  overwhelmed  Mr.  M 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


18i 


with  astonishment.  To  his  further  inquiries  the 

boy  only  said,  that  as  the  report  went  that  M 

house  was  undergoing  some  repair,  it  was  proba- 
ble his  lord  had  orone  on  a visit  to  some  of  the 
neighbouring  quality.  He  added  that  his  lord 
ship’s  own  gentleman  had  accompanied  him. 

Mr.  M.  remained  for  a considerable  time  lost 
in  thought;  then  throwing  the  bridle  over  his 
horse’s  neck,  folded  his  arms,  and  suffered  it  to 
take  its  own  course : it  was  the  same  animal 
which  had  so  often  carried  him  to  Inisrnore. 
When  he  had  determined  on  following  his  father 
to  the  Lodge  he  had  ordered  a fresh  horse ; that 
which  the  groom  led  out  was  the  same  which  Mr. 
M.  had  left  behind  him,  and  which,  by  becomkig 
the  companion  of  his  singular  adventure,  had 
obtained  a peculiar  interest  in  his  affections. 
When  he  had  passed  the  avenue  of  the  Lodge, 
the  animal  instinctively  took  to  that  path  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  go;  his  instinct  was  too  fa- 
vourable to  the  secret  wishes  of  the  heart  of  his 
unhappy  master ; he  smiled  sadly,  and  suffered 
him  to  proceed.  The  evening  was  far  advanced 
the  sun  had  sunk  in  the  horizon,  as  from  an  emi- 
nence he  perceived  the  castle  of  Inisrnore.  His 
heart  throbbed  with  violence — a thousand  hopes, 
a thousand  wishes,  a thousand  fears  agitated  his 
breast : he  dared  not  for  a moment  listen  to  the 
suggestions  of  either.  Lost  in  the  musings  of 
his  heart  and  imagination,  he  was  already  within 
a mile  of  Inisrnore.  The  world  now  disappear*^ 

16 


!82 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL 


ed — 1 e descended  rapidly  to  a wild  and  trackless 
shore,  screened  from  the  high  road  by  a range 
of  inaccessible  cliffs.  Twilight  faintly  lingered 
on  the  summit  of  the  mountains  only  : the  tide 
was  out ; and,  crossing  the  strand,  he  found  him- 
self beneath  those  stupendous  cliffs  which  shel- 
ter the  western  part  of  the  peninsula  of  Inismore 
from  the  ocean.  The  violence  of  the  waves  had 
worn  several  defiles  through  the  rocks,  which 
commanded  a near  view  of  the  ruined  castle : it 
was  involved  in  gloom  and  silence — all  was 
dark,  still,  and  solemn  ! — No  lights  issued  from 
the  windows — no  noise  cheered  at  intervals  the 
silence  of  desolation. 

A secret  impulse  still  impelled  the  steps  of 
Mr.  M , and  the  darkness  of  the  night  favour- 

ed his  irresistible  desire  to  satisfy  the  longings 
of  his  enamoured  heart,  by  taking  a last  look  at 
the  shrine  of  its  still  worshipped  idol.  He  pro- 
ceeded cautiously  through  the  rocks,  and  alight- 
ing, fastened  his  horse  near  a patch  of  herbage  ; 
then  advanced  towards  the  chapel — its  gates 
w'ere  open — the  silence  of  death  hung  over  it. 
The  rising  moon,  as  it  shone  through  the  broken 
casements,  fiung  round  a dim  religious  light,  and 
threw  its  quivering  rays  on  that  spot  where  he 
had  first  beheld  Glorvina  and  her  father  engaged 
in  the  interesting  ceremonies  of  their  religion. 
And  to  think  that  even  at  that  moment  he  breath- 
ed the  air  that  she  respired,  and  was  within  a few 
paces  of  the  spot  she  inhabited  ! — Overcome  by 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL.  , 


183 


the  conviction,  he  resigned  himself  to  the  deliri- 
um wliich  involved  his  heart  and  senses ; and, 
governed  by  the  overpowering  impulse  of  the 
moment,  he  proceeded  along  that  colonade  through 
which  he  had  distinctly  followed  her  and  the 
Prince  on  the  night  of  his  first  arrival  at  the 
castle.  It  seemed  to  his  heated  brain  as  though 
he  still  pursued  those  fine  and  striking  forms 
which  almost  appeared  but  the  phantoms  of 
fancy’s  creation. 

On  every  mourning  breeze  he  thought  the 
sound  of  Glorvina’s  voice  was  borne  ; and-  start- 
ing at  the  fall  of  every  leaf,  he  almost  expected 
to  meet  at  each  step  the  form  of  Father  John,  if 
not  that  of  his  faithless  mistress  ; but  the  idea  of 
her  lover  occurred  not.  The  review  of  scenes 
so  dear  awakened  only  a recollection  of  past  en- 
joyments ; and  in  the  fond  dream  of  memory  his 
present  sufferings  were  for  an  interval  suspended. 

Scarcely  aware  of  the  approximation,  he  had 
already  reached  the  lawn  which  fronted  the 
castle,  and  which  was  strewed  over  with  frag- 
ments of  the  mouldering  ruins,  and  leaning  be- 
hind  a broken  wall  which  screened  him  from 
observation,  he  indulged  himself  in  contempla- 
ting that  noble  but  decayed  edifice  where  so 
many  of  the  happiest  and  most  blameless  hours 
of  his  life  had  been  enjoyed.  His  first  glance 
was  directed  towards  the  casement  of  Glorvina’s 
room,  but  theie  nor  in  any  other  did  the  least 
glimmering  of  light  appear.  With  a faultering 


184 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Step  he  advanced  fr>m  his  concealment  towards 
the  left  wing  of  the  castle,  and  snatched  a hasty 
glance  through  the  window  of  the  banquetting 
hall.  It  was  the  hour  in  which  the  family  were 
wont  to  assemble  there.  It  was  now  impenetra- 
bly dark — he  ventured  to  approach  still  closer, 
and  fixed  his  eye  to  the  glass  ; but  nothing  met 
the  inquiry  of  his  eager  gaze  save  a piece  of  ar- 
mour, on  whose  polished  surface  the  moon’s  ran- 
dom beams  faintly  played.  His  heart  was 
chilled  ; yet,  encouraged  by  the  silent  desolation 
that  surrounded  him,  he  ventured  forward.  The 
gates  of  the  castle  were  partly  open  ; the  hall 
was  empty  and  dark — he  paused  and  listened — - 
all  was  silent  as  the  grave.  His  heart  sunk 
within  him — he  almost  wished  to  behold  some 
human  form,  to  hear  some  human  sound.  On 
either  side,  the  doors  of  two  large  apartments 
stood  open  : he  looked  into  each  ; all  was  chill 
and  dark. 

Grown  desperate  by  gloomy  fears,  he  proceed- 
ed rapidly  up  the  stone  stairs  which  wound 
through  the  centre  of  the  building.  He  paused  ; 
and,  leaning  over  the  balustrade,  listened  for  a 
considerable  time ; but  when  the  echo  of  his 
footsteps  had  died  away,  all  was  again  still  as 
death.  Horror-struck,  yet  doubting  the  evidence 
of  his  senses,  to  find  himself  thus  far  advanced  in 
the  interior  of  the  castle,  he  remained  for  some 
time  motionless — a thousand  melancholy  sug- 
gestions struck  on  his  srul.  With  an  impulse 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


185 


almost  frantic  he  rushed  to  the  corridor.  The 
doors  of  the  several  rooms  on  either  side  lay 
open,  and  he  tiiought  by  the  moon’s  doubtful  light 
they  seemed  despoiled  of  their  furniture. 

While  lie  stood  rapt  in  horror  and  amazement 
he  heard  the  sound  of  Grlorvina’s  harp,  borne  on 
the  blast  which  sighed  at  intervals  along  the  pas- 
sage. At  first  lie  believed  it  was  the  illusion  of 
his  fancy  disordered  by  the  awful  singularity  of 
his  peculiar  situation  j to  satisfy  at  once  his  in- 
supportable doubts  he  flew  to  that  room  where 
the  harp  of  Glorvina  always  stood:  like  the  rest 
it  was  unoccupied  and  dimly  lit  up  by  the  moon- 
beams. The  harp  of  Glorvina,  and  the  couch  on 
which  he  had  first  sat  by  her,  were  the  only  ar- 
ticles it  contained  : the  former  was  still  breath- 
ing its  wild  melody  when  he  entered,  but  he 
perceived  the  melancholy  vibration  was  produced 
by  the  sea  breeze  (admitted  by  the  open  case- 
ment) which  swept  at  intervals  along  its  strings.. 
Wholly  overcome  he  fell  on  the  couch — his  heart 
seemed  scarcely  susceptible  of  pulsation — every 
nerve  of  Ids  brain  was  strained  almost  to  burst- 
ing—he  gasped  for  breath.  The  gale  <*f  the  oceaii! 
continued  to  sigli  on  the  cords  of  the  harp,  and  its 
plaintive  tones  went  to  his  very  soul,  and  rou^ed 
those  feelings  so  truly  in  unison  witli  every  sad 
impression.  A few  burning  tears  relieved  him; 
from  an  agony  he  was  no  longer  able  to  endure  ; 
and  he  was  now  competent  to  draw  some  infer- 
ence from  the  dreadful  scene  of  desolation  by 

16 


186 


THE  WILD  TRISI  ^IRL. 


which  he  was  surrounded.  The  ^ood  old  Prince 
was  no  irore  ! — or  his  dau^liter  was  married  ! In 
either  case  it  was  probable  the  family  had  de- 
serted the  ruins  of  Inismore. 

While  absorbed  in  this  heart-rendin^  medita- 
tion,  he  saw  a faint  li^ht  orleaming  on  the  ceilincj 
of  the  room,  and  heard  a footstep  approaching. 
Unable  to  move,  he  sat  breathless  with  expecta- 
tion. An  ancient  female  tottcrint^  and  feeble, 
with  a lantern  in  her  hand,  entered  ; and  having 
fastened  down  the  window,  was  creeping  slowly 
along  and  muttering  to  herself : when  she  per- 
ceived the  pale  and  ghastly  figure  of  the  stranger, 
she  shrieked,  let  fall  the  light,  and  endeavoured 

to  hobble  away.  Mr.  M followed,  and  caught 

her  by  the  arm  : she  redoubled  her  cries — it  was 
with  difficulty  he  could  pacify  her — while,  as  his 
heart  fluttered  on  his  lips,  he  could  only  say, 
“The  lady  Glorvina! — the  Prince! — speak! — 
where  are  they 

The  old  woman  had  now'  recovered  her  light, 

and  holding  it  up  to  the  face  of  Mr.  M , she 

instantly  recognized  him  ; he  had  been  a popular 
favourite  with  the  poor  followers  of  Inismore  : 
she  was  among  the  number ; and  her  joy  at  bav- 
ins: her  terrors  thus  terminated,  was  such  as  for 
an  interval  to  preclude  all  hope  of  obtaining  any 
answei  from  her.  With  some  difficulty  the  dis- 

11  acted  and  impatient  M at  last  learnt  from 

a detail  interrupted  by  all  the  audible  testimonies 
«f  vulgar  grief.,  that  an  execution  had  been  laid 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


187 


upon  the  Prince’s  property,  and  another  upon  his 
person  ; that  he  had  been  carried  away  to  jail 
out  of  a sick  bed,  accompanied  by  his  daughter, 
Father  John,  and  the  old  nurse  ; and  that  the 
whole  party  had  set  off  in  the  old  family  coach, 
which  the  creditors  had  not  thought  worthy  ta- 
king away,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  lest  the 
country  people  should  rise  to  rescue  the  Prince, 
which  the  officers  who  accompanied  him  appre- 
hended. 

The  old  woman  was  proceeding  in  her  narra- 
tive, but  her  auditor  heard  no  more  ; he  flew  from 
the  castle,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  set  out  for 
the  town  where  the  Prince  was  imprisoned.  He 
reached  it  early  next  morning,  and  rode  at  once 
to  the  jail.  He  alighted  and  inquired  for  Mr. 
O’Melville,  commonly  called  Prince  of  Inismore. 

The  jailor,  observing  his  wild  and  haggard  ap- 
pearance, kindly  asked  him  into  his  own  room 
and  then  informed  him  that  the  Prince  had  been 
released  two  days  back  ; but  that  his  weak  state 
of  health  did  not  permit  him  to  leave  the  jail  till 
the  preceding  evening,  when  he  had  set  off  for 
Inismore.  “ But,”  said  the  jailor,  “ he  will  never 
reach  his  old  castle  alive,  poor  gentleman  ! which 
he  suspected  himself ; for  he  received  the  last 
ceremonies  of  the  church  before  he  departed, 
thinking,  I suppose,  that  he  would  die  on  the 
way.” 

Overcome  by  fatigue  and  a variety  of  over- 
whelming emotions,  Mr.  M sunk  motionloM 


188 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


on  a seat ; while  the  humane  jailor,  shocked  by 
the  wretchedness  of  his  looks,  and  supposing  him 
to  be  a near  relative,  offered  some  words  of  con- 
solation, and  informed  him  there  was  then  a fe- 
male domestic  of  the  Prince’s  in  the  prison,  whc 
was  to  follow  the  family  in  the  course  of  the  day, 
and  who  could  probably  give  him  every  informa- 
tion he  might  require.  This  was  welcome  ti- 
dings to  Mr.  M ; and  he  followed  the  jailor 

to  the  room  where  the  Prince  had  been  confined, 
and  where  the  old  nurse  was  engaged  in  packing 
up  some  articles,  which  fell  out  of  her  hands 
when  she  perceived  her  favourite  and  patient, 
whom  she  cordially  embraced  with  the  most  pas- 
sionate demonstrations  of  joy  and  amazement. 

The  jailor  retired  ; and  Mr.  M , shuddering 

as  he  contemplated  the  close  and  gloomy  little 
apartment,  its  sorry  furniture,  and  grated  win- 
dows, where  the  suffering  Glorvina  had  been 
imprisoned  with  her  father,  briefly  related  to  the 
nurse  that,  having  learnt  the  misfortunes  of  the 
Prince,  he  had  followed  him  to  the  prison,  in  the 
hope  of  being  able  to  give  him  some  assistance, 
if  not  to  eflect  his  liberation. 

The  old  woman  was  as  usual  garrulous  and 
communicative  ; she  wept  alternately  the  Prii  ce’s 
sufferings  and  tears  of  joy  for  his  release  ; talked 
sometimes  of  the  generosity  of  the  good  friend, 
who  had,  she  said,  “ been  the  saviour  of  them 
all,’  and  sometimes  of  the  Christian  fortitude  of 
the  Prince ; but  still  dwelt  most  on  the  virtues 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


189 


and  afflictions  of  her  young  lady,  whom  she  fre- 
quently termed  a saint  out  of  heaven^  a suffering 
angel,  and  a martyr.  She  then  related  the  cir- 
cumstances of  the  Prince’s  imprisonment  in  terms 
so  affecting,  yet  so  simple,  that  her  own  tears 
dropt  not  faster  than  those  of  her  auditor.  She 
said  that  she  believed  they  had  looked  for  assist- 
ance from  their  concealed  friend  until  the  last 
moment,  when  the  Prince,  unable  to  struggle  any 

longer,  left  his  sick  bed  for  the  prison  of ; 

that  Glorvina  had  supported  her  father  during 
their  melancholy  journey  in  her  arms,  without 
suffering  even  a tear,  much  less  a complaint  to 
escape  her  ; that  she  had  supported  his  spirits 
and  her  own  as  though  she  were  more  than  hu- 
man, until  the  physician  who  attended  the  Prince 
gave  him  over ; that  then  her  distraction  (when 
out  of  the  presence  of  her  father)  knew  no  bounds ; 
and  that  once  they  feared  her  senses  were  touch- 
ed. When,  at  a moment  when  they  were  all  re- 
duced to  despair,  the  mysterious  friend  arrived, 
paid  the  debt  for  which  the  Prince  was  confined, 
and  had  carried  them  off  the  evening  before,  by 
a more  tedious  but  less  rugged  road  than  that  she 

supposed  Mr.  M had  taken,  by  which  means 

he  had  probably  missed  them.  “ For  all  this, 
(continued  the  old  woman  weeping)  my  child 
will  never  be  happy  : she  is  sacrificing  herself 
for  her  father,  and  he  will  not  live  to  enjoy  the 
benefit  of  it.  The  gentleman  is  indeed  good  and 
comely  to  look  at ; and  his  being  old  enough  to 


190 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


be  lier  father  matters  nothing ; but  then  love  is 
not  to  be  commanded,  though  duty  may.” 

Mr.  M.  struck  by  these  words  fell  at  her  feet, 
onjured  her  not  to  conceal  from  him  the  state  of 
her  lady’s  affections,  confessed  his  own  secret 
passion,  in  terms  as  ardent  as  it  was  felt.  His 
recent  sufferings  and  suspicions,  and  the  present 
distracted  state  of  his  mind,  his  tears,  his  entrea- 
ties, his  wildly  energetic  supplications,  his 
wretched  but  interesting  appearance,  and  above 
all  the  adoration  he  professed  for  the  object  of 
her  own  tenderest  affection,  finally  vanquished 
the  small  portion  of  prudence  and  reserve  inter- 
woven in  the  unguarded  character  of  the  simple 
and  affectionate  old  Irish  woman,  and  she  at  last 
confessed,  that  the  day  after  his  departure  from 
, the  castle  of  Inismore,  Glorvina  was  seized  with 
a fever,  in  which,  after  the  first  day,  she  became 
delirious  ; that  during  the  night,  as  the  nurse  sat 
by  her,  she  awakened  from  a deep  sleep  and 
began  to  speak  much  of  Mr.  Mortime'r,  whom 
she  called  her  friend,  her  preceptor,  and  her 
lover ; talked  wildly  of  her  having  been  united 
to  him  hy  God  in  the  vale  of  Inismore,  and  drew 
from  her  bosom  a sprig  of  withered  myrtle,  which, 
she  said,  had  been  a bridal  gift  from  her  beloved, 
and  that  she  often  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  smiled, 
and  began  to  sing  an  air  which,  she  said,  was 
dear  to  him;  until  at  last  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
wept  herself  to  sleep  again.  “ When  she  recov- 
ered,” continued  the  nurse,  “ which,  owing  to  hei 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


191 


youth  and  line  constitution,  she  did  in  a few  days, 
I mentioned  to  her  some  of  tliese  sayings,  at 
wliich  she  chanjred  colour,  and  beo;ored  that  as  I 
valued  her  happiness  I would  bury  all  I had 
heard  in  my  own  breast ; and  above  all  bid  me 
not  mention  your  name;,  as  it  was  now  her  duty 
to  forget  you  ; and  last  night  I heard  her  consent 
to  become  the  wife  of  the  good  gentleman  ; but 
poor  chiW  it  is  all  one,  for  she  will  die  of  a bro- 
ken heart.  1 see  plainly  she  will  not  long  sur- 
vive her  father,  nor  will  ever  love  any  but  you  !” 
At  these  words  the  old  woman  burst  into  a pas- 
sion of  tears,  while  Mr.  M catching  her  in 

his  arms,  exclaimed,  “ I owe  you  my  life,  a 
thousand  times  more  than  my  life  ; and  throwing 
his  purse  into  her  lap,  flew  to  the  inn,  where 
having  obtained  a hack  horse,  given  his  own  in 
care  to  the  master,  and  taken  a little  refreshment 
which  his  exhausted  frame,  long  fasting,  and  ex- 
traordinary fatigue  required,  he  again  set  out  for 
the  Lodge.  His  sole  object  was  to  obtain  an  in- 
t(;rview  with  Glorvina,  and  on  the  result  of  that 
interview  to  form  his  future  determination. 

To  retrace  the  wild  fluctuations  of  those  pow- 
erful and  poignant  feelings  which  agitated  a mind 
alternately  the  prey  of  its  wishes  and  its  fears, 
now  governed  by  the  impetuous  impulses  of  un- 
conquerabh  love  now  by  the  sacred  ties  of  filial 
aflection,  now  sacrificing  eyery  consideration  to 
the  dictates  of  duty,  and  now  forgetting  every- 
thing in  the  fond  dr#  ams  of  passion,  would  be  an 


192 


THE  WILD  IR  SH  GIRL. 


endless,  an  impassible  task  ; when  still  ribraf in« 
between  the  sweet  felicities  af  new-born  hope, 
and  the  gloomy  suggestions  of  habitual  doubt. 
The  weary  traveller  reached  the  peninsula  of  In- 
ismore  about  the  same  hour  that  he  had  done  the 
preceding  day.  At  the  drawbridge  he  was  met 
by  a peasant  whom  he  had  known  and  to  whom 
he  gave  his  horse.  The  man,  with  a countenance 
full  of  importaime,  was  going  to  address  him,  but 
he  sprung  eagerly  forward  and  was  in  a moment 
immersed  in  the  ruins  of  the  castle  ; intending  to 
pass  through  the  chapel  as  the  speediest  and  most 
private  way,  and  to  make  his  arrival  first  knov/n 
to  Father  John,  to  declare  to  the  good  priest  his 
real  name  and  rank,  his  passion  for  Glorvina,  and 
to  receive  his  destiny  from  her  lips  ordy. 

He  had  scarcely  en^tered  the  chapel  when  the 
private  door  by  which  it  communicated  with  the 
castle  dew  open.  He  screened  himself  behind  a 
pillar,  from  whence  he  beheld  Father  John  pro- 
ceeding with  a solemn  air  towards  the  altar,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Prince,  carried  by  three-  servants  in 
an  arm  chair,  and  apparently  in  the  last  stage  of 
mortal  existence.  Glorvii>a  then  appeared  wrapt 
in  a long  veil  and  supported  on  the  arm  of  a stran- 
ger, whose  figure  and  air  was  lofty  and  noble,  but 
whose  face  was  concealed  by  the  recumbent  atti- 
tude of  his  head,  which  drooped  towards  that  of 
his  apparently  feeble  companion,  as  if  in  the  act 
□f  addressing  her.  Ibis  singular  procession  ad- 
vanced to  the  altar  ; the  chair  of  the  Prince 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


193 


posed  at  his  feet.  The  priest  stood  at  the  sacred 
table — Glor  ina  and  her  companion  knelt  at  its 
steps.  The  last  red  beams  of  the  evening  sun 
shone  through  a stormy  cloud  on  the  votarists 
all  was  awfully  silent;  a pause  solemn  and  affect 
ing  ensued ; then  the  priest  began  to  celebrate 
the  maraiage  rites  ; but  the  first  words  had  not 
died  on  his  lips,  when  a figure,  pale  and  ghastly, 
rushed  forward,  wildly  exclaiming,  “ Stop,  I 
charge  you,  stop  ! you  know  not  what  you  do ! 
it  is  a sacrilege !”  and  breathless  and  faint  the 
seeming  maniac  sunk  at  the  feet  of  the  bride. 

A convulsive  shriek  burst  from  the  lips  of  Glor- 
vina.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven,  then  fixed 
them  on  her  unfortunate  lover,  and  dropped  life- 
less into  his  arms — a pause  of  indiscribable  emo- 
tion succeeded.  The  Prince,  aghast,  gazed  on 
the  hapless  pair ; thus  seemingly  entwined  in  the 
embrace  of  death.  The  priest  transfixed  with  pity 
and  amazement  let  fall  the  sacred  volume  from 
his  hands.  Emotions  of  an  indescribable  nature 
mingled  in  the  countenance  of  the  bridegroom. 
The  priest  was  the  first  to  dissolve  the  spell,  and 
to  recover  a comparative  presence  of  mind ; he 
descended  from  the  altar  and  endeavoured  to  raise 
and  extricate  the  lifeless  Glorvina  from  the  arms 
of  her  unhappy  lover,  but  the  effort  was  vain. 
Clasping  her  to  his  heart  closer  than  ever,  the 

almost  frantic  M exclaimed,  “ She  is  mine  ! 

mine  in  the  eye  o ’ heaven ! and  no  human  power 
can  part  us !” 

N 17 

t 


194 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


“ Mprciful  providence  !”  exclaimed  the  bride- 
groom faintly,  and  sunk  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
priest.  The  voice  pierced  to  the  heart  of  his  ri- 
val ; he  raised  his  eyes,  fell  lifeless  against  the 
railing  of  the  altar,  faintly  uttering,  “ God  of  Om- 
nipotence ! my  father  !”  Glorvina  released  from 
the  nerveless  clasp  of  her  lover,  sunk  on  her 
knees  between  the  father  and  the  son,  alternately 
fixed  her  wild  regard  on  both,  then  suddenly  turn- 
ing them  on  the  now  apparently  expiring  Prince, 
she  sprang  forward,  and  throwing  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  frantically  cried,  “ It  is  my  father  they 
will  destroy  and  sobbing  convulsively,  sunk, 
overcome,  on  his  shoulder. 

The  Prince  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  look- 
ing round  with  a ghastly  and  inquiring  glance  for 
the  explanation  of  that  mystery  no  one  had  the 
power  to  unravel,  and  by  which  all  seemed  over- 
whelmed. At  last,  with  an  effort  of  expiring 
strength,  he  raised  himself  in  his  seat,  entwined 
his  arm  round  his  child,  and  intimated  by  his  elo- 
quent looks,  that  he  wished  the  mysterious  father 
and  his  rival  son  to  approach.  The  priest  led  the 
former  towards  him  : the  latter  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  hid  his  head  in  his  mantle  : all  the  native 
dignity  of  his  character  now  seemed  to  irradiate 
the  countenance  of  the  Prince  of  Inismore  ; iiis 
eyes  sparkl  3d  with  a transient  beam  of  theii 
former  fire  ; and  the  retreating  powers  of  life 
seemed  for  a moment  to  rush  through  his  ex* 
haus.ed  veins  with  all  their  pristine  vigour.  With 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


195 


a deep  and  hollow  voice  he  said : “ I find  I have 
been  deceived,  and  my  child,  I fear,  is  to  become 
the  vii  tim  of  this  deception.  Speak,  mysterious 
strangrers,  who  have  taught  me  at  once  to  love 
and  to  fear  you — what,  and  who  are  you  ? and  to 
what  purpose  have  you  mutually,  but  apparently 
unknown  to  each  other,  stolen  on  our  seclusion, 
and  thus  combined  to  embitter  my  last  hours,  by 
threatening  the  destruction  of  my  child  ?” 

A long  and  solemn  pause  ensued,  which  was  at 
last  interrupted  by  the  Karl  of  M.  With  a firm 
and  collected  air  he  replied  : “ That  youth  who 
kneels  at  your  feet,  is  my  son  ; but  till  this  mo- 
ment I was  ignorant  that  he  was  known  to  you : 
1 was  equally  unaware  of  those  claims  which  he 
has  now  made  on  the  heart  of  vour  daughter.  If 
he  has  deceived  you  he  also  has  deceived  his 
lather  ! For  myself,  if  imposition  can  be  extenua- 
ted, mii^  merits  forgiveness,  for  it  was  founded 
on  honourable  and  virtuous  motives.  To  restore 
to  you  the  blessings  of  independence  ; to  raise 
your  daughter  to  that  rank  in  life,  her  birth,  her 
virtues,  and  her  talents  merit ; and  to  obtain  your 
assistance  in  dissipating  the  ignorance,  improv- 
ing the  state,  and  ameliorating  the  condition  of 
those  poor  unhappy  compatriots,  who,  living  im- 
mediately within  your  own  sphere  of  action,  are 
influenced  by  your  example,  and  would  best  be 
actuated  by  your  counsel.  Such  were  the  wishes 
of  my  heart  ; but  prejudice^  the  enemy  of  all  hu^ 
man  virtue  and  human  felicity,  forbade  their  exe'* 


\96 


THE  WILD  mrSFT  GIRZ. 


eiition.  My  first  overtures  of  amity  were  treated 
with  scorn  ; my  first  offers  of  service  rejected 
witli  disdairi ; and  my  crime  was  that  in  a dis-* 
taut  age  an  ancestor  of  mine,  by  the  fortune  of 
war,  bad  possessed  himself  of  those  domains^ 
which,  in  a more  distant  age,  a remoter  ancestor 
of  yonrs  won  by  similar  means. 

“ Thus  denied  the  open  declaration  of  my  good 
intents,  I stooped  to  the  assumption  of  a fktitious 
character ; and  he  who  as  a hereditary  enemy 
was  forbid  your  house,  as  an  unknown  and  unfor- 
lunate  stranger,  under  affected  circumstances  of 
peculiar  danger,  was  received  to  your  protection ^ 
and  soon  to  yoitr  heart  as  its  dearest  friend.  The 
influeivce  I obtained  over  your  mind,  I used  to 
the  salutary  purpose  of  awakening  it  to  a train 
of  ideas  more  iiberal  than  the  prejudices  of  edu- 
cation bad  hitherto  suffered  it  to  cherish  ; and 
the  services  I had  it  in  my  power  to  render  you^ 
the  fervour  of  your  gratitude  so  far  over-rated,, 
as  to  induce  you  to  repay  them  by  the  most  pre- 
cious of  all  donations — ^y our  child.  But  for  the 
wonderful  and  most  unexpected  incident  which 
has  now  crossed  your  designs,  your  daughter  had 
been  by  this  the  wife  of  the  Earl  of  M.” 

With  a strong  convulsion  of  expiring  nature, 
the  Prince  started  from  his  chair ; gazed  for  a 
moment  on  the  Earl  with  a fixed  and  eager  look 
and  again  sunk  on  his  seat;  it  was  the  last  con 
vulsive  throe  of  life  roused  into  existence  by  the 
ast  violent  feeling  of  mortal  emotion.  With  au 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


197 


indefinable  expression,  be  directed  his  eyes  alter- 
nately from  the  father  to  the  son,  then  sunk  back 
and  closed  them  : the  younger  M.  clasped  his 
hi  nd,  and  bathed  it  with  tears ; his  daughter, 
who  hung  over  him,  gazed  intently  on  his  face, 
and  though  she  tremblingly  watched  the  extinc- 
tion of  that  life  in  wjiich  her  own  was  wrapped 
up,  her  air  was  wild,  her  eye  beamless,  her  cheek 
pale  ; grief  and  amazement  seemed  to  have  bereft 
her  of  her  senses,  but  her  feelings  had  lost  no- 
thing of  their  poignancy:  the  Earl  of  M.  leaned 
on  the  back  of  the  Prince’s  chair,  his  face  cov- 
ered with  his  hand : the  priest  held  his  right 
hand,  and  wept  like  an  infant : among  the  at- 
tendants there  was  not  one  appeared  with  a dry 
eye. 

After  a long  and  affecting  pause,  the  Prince 
heaved  a deep  sigh,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  the 
crucifix  which  hunor  over  the  altar  : the  effusions 

O 

of  a departing  and  pious  soul  murmured  on  his 
lips,  but  the  powers  of  utterance  were  gone  ; 
every  mortal  passion  was  fled,  save  that  which 
flutters  with  the  last  pulse  of  life  in  the  heart  of 
a floating  father,  parental  solicitude  and  parental 
love.  Religion  claimed  his  last  sense  of  duty, 
nature  his  last  impulse  of  feeling  ; he  fixed  his 
last  gaze  on  the  face  of  his  daughter  ; he  raised 
himself  with  a dying  effort  to  receive  her  last 
kiss:  she  fell  on  his  bosom,  their  arms  intei- 
la»:5ed.  In  this  attitude  he  expired. 

Glorvina,  in  the  arms  of  the  attendants,  was 
17* 


198 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


conveyed  lifeless  to  the  castle.  The  body  of  ihfl 
Prince  was  jarried  to  the  great  hall,  and  there 
laid  on  a bier.  The  Earl  of  M.  walked  by  the 
side  of  the  body,  and  his  almost  lifeless  son,  sup- 
ported by  the  arm  of  the  priest  (who  himself 
stood  in  need  of  assistance,)  slowly  followed. 

The  elder  M.  had  loved  the  venerable  Prince 
as  a brother  and  a friend  : the  younger  as  a 
father.  In  their  common  regret  for  the  object  of 
their  mutual  affection,  heightened  by  that  sadly 
affecting  scene  they  had  just  witnessed,  they  lost 
for  an  interval  a sense  of  that  extraordinary  and 
delicate  situation  in  which  they  now  stood  rela- 
ted towards  each  other  ; they  hung  on  either  side 
in  a mournful  silence  over  the  deceased  object  of 
their  friendly  affliction  ; while  the  concourse  of 
poor  peasants,  whom  the  return  of  the  Prince 
brought  in  joyful  emotion  to  the  castle,  now 
crowded  into  the  hall,  uttering  those  vehement 
exclamations  of  sorrow  and  amazement  so  conso- 
nant to  the  impassioned  energy  of  their  national 
character.  To  still  the  violence  of  their  emotions, 
the  priest  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bier  began  a 
prayer  for  the  soul  of  the  deceased.  All  who 
were  present  knelt  around  him  : all  was  awful, 
solemn,  and  still.  At  that  moment  Glorvina  ap- 
peared: she  had  rushed  from  the  arms  of  hei  at 
tendants ; her  strength  was  resistless,  for  it  was 
the  energy  of  madness  ; her  senses  were  fled. 

A dead  silence  ensued  ; for  the  emotion  of  the 
priest  would  not  suffer  him  to  proceed.  Regard- 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


199 


less  of  ihe  prostrate  throng,  she  glided  up  the 
hall  to  the  bier,  and  gazing  earnestly  on  her  fa- 
ther, smiled  sadly,  and  waved  her  hand  ; then 
kissing  his  cheek,  she  threw  her  veil  over  his 
face,  and  putting  her  finger  on  her  lip,  as  if  to 
impose  silence,  softly  exclaimed,  “ Hush  ! he 
does  not  suffer  now!  he  sleeps!  it  was  1 who 
lulled  him  to  repose  with  the  song  his  heart 
loves  !”  and  then  kneeling  beside  him,  in  a voice 
scarcely  human,  she  breathed  out  a soul-rending 
air  she  had  been  accustomed  to  sing  to  her  father 
from  her  earliest  infancy.  The  silence  of  com- 
passion, of  horror,  which  breathed  around,  was 
alone  interrupted  by  her  song  of  grief,  while  no 
eye  save  hers  was  dry.  Abruptly  breaking  off 
her  plaintive  strains,  she  drew  the  veil  from  her 
father’s  face,  and  suddenly  averting  her  gaze 
from  his  livid  features,  it  wandered  from  the 
Earl  of  M.  to  his  son  ; while  with  a piercing 
shriek  she  exclaimed,  “ Whioh  of  you  murdered 
my  father  ?”  then  looking  tenderly  on  the  younger 
M.  (whose  eyes  not  less  wild  than  her  own  had 
followed  her  every  motion,)  she  softly  added,  ‘‘  It 
was  not  you,  my  love  !”  and  with  a loud  convul- 
sive laugh  she  fell  lifeless  into  the  priest’s  arms, 
who  was  the  first  who  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  think  of  removing  the  still  lovely  maniac.  The 
rival  father  and  his  unhappy  son  withdrew  at  the 
same  moment ; and  when  the  priest  (having  dis- 
posed of  his  unfortunate  charge)  returned  to  seek 
them,  he  found  them  both  in  the  same  apartment, 


200 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


but  at  a considerable  distance  from  each  other, 
both  buried  in  silent  emotion  — both  labouring 
under  the  violence  of  their  respective  feelings. 
The  priest  attempted  some  words  expressive  of 
consolation  to  the  younger  M.  who  seemed  most 
the  victim  of  uncontrollable  affliction  ; but  with  a 
firm  manner  the  earl  interrupted  him  : — “ My 
good  friend,”  said  he,  “ this  is  no  time  for  words; 
nature  and  feeling  claim  their  prerogative,  and 
are  not  to  be  denied.  Your  venerable  friend  is 
no  more,  but  he  has  ceased  to  suffer  : the  afflict- 
ed and  angelic  being,  whose  affecting  sorrows  so 
recently  wrung  our  hearts  with  agony,  has  still, 
I trust,  many  years  of  felicity  and  health  in  store 
to  compensate  for  her  early  trials  ; from  hence- 
forth I shall  consider  her  as  the  child  of  my  adop- 
tion. For  myself,  the  motives  by  which  my 
apparently  extraordinary  conduct  was  governed 
were  pure  and  disinterested  ; though  the  means 
by  which  I endeavoured  to  effect  my  laudable 
purpose  were  perhaps  not  strictly  justifiable  in 
the  eye  of  rigid,  undeviating  integrity.  For  this 
young  man  !”  he  paused,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on 
his  son  till  they  filled  with  tears,  the  strongest 
emotions  agitating  his  frame  ; Mr.  M.  rushed  for- 
ward,  and  fell  on  his  father’s  breast.  The  eari 
pressed  him  to  his  heart,  and  putting  his  hands 
in  those  of  Father  John,  he  said,  “ To  your  care 
and  tenderness  I commend  my  child ; and  from 
you,”  he  added,  addressing  his  son,  “ I shall  ex- 
pect the  developement  of  that  mystery,  which  is 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


201 


US  yet  (lark  and  unfathomable.  Remain  here  till 
we  fully  understand  each  other.  1 depart  to  night 

for  M — house.  It  is  reserved  for  you  to  assist 

this  worthy  man  in  the  last  solemn  office  of 
friendship  and  humanity.  It  is  reserved  for  you 
to  watch  over  and  cherish  that  suffering  angel, 
for  whose  future  happiness  we  both  mutually 
stand  accountable.”  With  these  words  Lord  M. 
again  embraced  his  almost  lifeless  son,  and  press- 
ing the  hand  of  the  priest  withdrew.  Father 
John  followed  him  ; but  importunities  were  fruit- 
less ; his  horses  were  ordered,  and  having  pul  a 
bank-note  of  considerable  amount  into  his  hands 
to  defray  the  funeral  expenses,  he  departed  from 
Inismore. 

In  the  course  of  four  days,  the  remains  of  the 
Prince  were  consioned  to  the  tomb.  Glorvina’s 

C5 

health  and  fine  constitution  were  already  prevail- 
ing over  her  disorder  and  acute  sensibility  ; her 
senses  were  gradually  returning,  and  only  ap- 
peared subject  to  wander  when  a sense  of  her 
recent  suffering  struck  on  her  heart.  The  old 
nurse  was  the  first  who  ventured  to  mention  to 
her  that  her  unhappy  lover  was  in  the  house  ; 
but  though  she  appeared  struck  and  deeply  af- 
fected by  the  intelligence,  she  never  mentioned 
his  name. 

Meantime  Mr.  M.,  owing  to  his  recent  suffer- 
ings of  mind  and  body,  was  seized  with  a slow 
fever  and  confined  for  many  days  to  his  bed.  A 
physician  of  eminence  in  the  country  had  taken 


202 


THE  WIl  D IRISH  GIRL. 


up  his  residence  at  Inismore,  and  a courier  daily 
passed  between  the  castle  and  M — — house,  with 
his  reports  of  the  health  of  the  two  patients  to  the 
Earl.  In  a fortnight  they  were  both  so  far  recov- 
ered, as  to  remove  from  their  respective  bed 
rooms  to  an  adjoining  apartment.  The  benevo- 
lent priest,  who  day  and  night  had  watched  over 
them,  undertook  to  prepare  Glorvina  for  the  re- 
ception of  Mr.  M.  whose  life  seemed  to  hang 
upon  the  restoration  of  hers.  When  she  heard 
that  he  was  still  in  the  castle,  and  had  just  es- 
caped from  the  jaws  of  death,  she  shuddered  and 
changed  colour  ; and  with  a faint  voice  inquired 
for  his  father.  When  she  learnt  he  had  left  the 
castle  on  the  night  when  she  had  last  seen  him, 
she  seemed  to  feel  much  satisfaction,  and  said, 
“ What  an  extraordinary  circumstance  ! What  a 
mystery  ! — the  father  and  the  son  !”  She  paused, 
and  a faint  hectic  coloured  her  pale  cheek  ; then 
added,  “ unfortunate  and  imprudent  young  man  ! 
Will  his  father  forgive  and  receive  him 

“ He  is  dearer  than  ever  to  his  father’s  heart 
said  the  priest,  “ the  first  use  he  made  of  his  re- 
turning health,  was  to  write  to  his  inestimable 
parent,  confessing  without  the  least  reservation 
every  incident  of  his  late  extraordinary  adven- 
ture.” 

“And  when  does  he  leave  the  castle!”  inarticu- 
lately demanded  Glorvina. 

“ That  rests  with  you  replied  the  priest. 

She  turned  aside  her  head  and  sigh^-d  heavily 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


203 


then  bursting  into  tears,  flung  her  arms  affection- 
ately round  her  beloved  preceptor,  and  cried,  I 
have  ;iovv  no  fath  u*  but  you — act  for  me  as  such 

The  priest  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and,  draw 
ing  a letter  from  his  bosom,  said,  “ This  is  from 
one  who  pants  to  become  your  father  in  the  strict- 
est sense  of  the  word  ; it  is  from  Lord  M.,  but 
though  addressed  to  his  son,  it  is  equally  intend- 
ed for  your  perusal.  That  son,  that  friend,  that 
lover,  whose  life  and  happiness  now  rests  in  your 
hands,  in  all  the  powerful  emotions  of  hope, 
doubt,  anxiety,  and  expectation,  now  waits  to  be 
admitted  to  your  presence.” 

Glorvina,  gasping  for  breath,  caught  hold  of 
the  priest’s  arm,  then  sunk  back  upon  her  seat, 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  The  priest 
withdrew,  and  in  a few  minutes  returned,  leading 
in  the  agitated  invalid  ; then  placing  the  hands  of 
the  almost  lifeless  Glorvina  in  his,  retired.  He 
felt  the  mutual  delicacy  of  their  situation,  and  for- 
bore to  heighten  it  by  his  presence. 

Two  hours  had  elapsed  before  the  venerable 
priest  again  sought  the  two  objects  dearest  to  his 
heart ; he  found  Glorvina  overwhelmed  with  soft 
emotion,  her  cheek  covered  with  blushes,  and  her 
hand  clasped  in  that  of  the  interesting  invalid, 
whose  flushing  colour  and  animated  eyes  spoke 
the  return  of  health  and  happiness  ; not  indeed 
confirmed,  but  fed  by  sanguine  hope  ; such  hope 
as  the  heart  of  a mourning  child  could  give  to  the 
object  of  her  heart’s  first  passion,  in  that  era  of 


204 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


filial  grief,  when  sorrow  is  mellowed  by  reason, 
and  soothed  by  religion  into  a tender  but  not  un- 
gracious melancholy.  The  good  priest  embraced 
and  blessed  them  alternately,  then,  seated  between 
them,  read  aloud  the  letter  of  Lord  M. 

TO  THE  HON.  HORATIO  M. 

Since  human  happiness,  like  every  other  feel- 
ing of  the  human  heart,  loses  its  poignancy  by 
reiteration,  its  fragrance  with  its  bloom  ; let  me 
not  (while  the  first  fallen  dew  of  pleasure  hangs 
fresh  upon  the  flower  of  your  existence)  seize  on 
those  precious  moments  which  Hope,  rescued 
from  the  fangs  of  despondency,  and  bliss,  suc- 
ceeding to  affliction,  claim  as  their  own.  Brief 
be  the  detail  which  intrudes  on  the  hour  of  new- 
born joy,  and  short  the  narrative  which  holds 
captive  the  attention,  while  the  heart,  involved  in 
its  own  enjoyments,  denies  its  interest. 

It  is  now  unnecessary  for  me  fully  to  explain 
all  the  motives  which  led  me  to  appear  at  the 
castle  ofTnismore  in  a fictitious  character.  Deep 
ly  interested  for  a people  whose  national  charac- 
ter I had  hitherto  viewed  through  the  false  me- 
dium of  prejudice  ; anxious  to  make  it  my  study 
in  a situation,  and  under  circumstances,  which  as 
an  English  landholder,  as  the  Earl  of  M — , was 
denied  me,  and  to  turn  the  stream  of  my  acquired 
information  to  that  channel  which  would  tend  to 
the  promotion  of  the  happiness  and  welfare  of 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


205 


those  whose  destiny,  in  some  measure,  was  con 
signed  to  my  guidance  : — solicitous  to  triumph 
over  the  hereditary  prejudices  of  my  hereditary 
enemy;  to  seduce  him  into  amity,  and  force  him 
to  esteem  the  man  he  hated;  while  he  uncon- 
sciously became  his  accessary  in  promoting  the 
welfare  of  those  of  his  humble  compatriots  who 
dwelt  within  the  sphere  of  our  mutual  observa- 
tion. Such  w^ere  the  motives  which  principally 
guided  my  late  apparently  romantic  adventure  ; 
would  that  the  means  had  been  equally  laudable. 

Received  into  the  mansion  of  the  generous  but 
incautious  Prince,  as  a proscribed  and  unfortu- 
nate wanderer,  I owed  my  reception  to  his  hu- 
manity rather  than  his  prudence  ; and  when  I 
told  him  that  I threw  my  life  into  his  power,  his 
honour  became  bound  for  its  security,  though  his 
principles  condemned  the  conduct  which  he  be- 
lieved had  effected  its  just  forfeiture. 

For  some  months,  in  two  succeeding  summers, 
I contrived  to  perpetuate,  with  plausive  details, 
the  mystery  I had  forged  ; and  to  confirm  the  in- 
terest I had  been  so  fortunate  at  first  to  awaken 
into  an  ardent  friendship,  which  became  as  recip- 
rocal as  it  was  disinterested.  Yet  it  was  still  my 
destiny  to  be  loved  identically  as  myself ; as  my- 
self adventitiously  to  be  hated.  And  the  name  of 

the  Earl  of  M was  forbidden  to  be  mentioned 

in  the  presence  of  the  Prince,  while  he  frequently 
confessed  that  the  happiest  of  his  liours  were 
passed  in  Lord  M ’s  society. 

VOL.  II.  18 


206 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


Thus  singularly  situated,  I dared  not  hazard  a 
revelation  of  my  real  character,  lest  I should 
lose  by  the  discovery  all  those  precious  immuni- 
ties with  which  my  fictitious  one  had  endow- 
ed me. 

But  while  it  was  my  good  fortune  thus  warmly 
to  ingratiate  myself  with  the  father,  can  I pass 
over  in  silence  my  prouder  triumph  in  that  filial 
interest  I awakened  in  the  heart  of  his  daughter. 
Her  tender  commiseration  for  my  supposed  mis- 
fortunes; the  persevering  goodness  with  which 
she  endeavoured  to  rescue  me  from  those  erro- 
neous principles  she  believed  the  efficient  cause 
of  sufferings,  and  which  I appeared  to  sacrifice  to 
her  better  reason.  The  flattering  interest  she 
took  in  my  conversation  ; the  eagerness  with 
which  she  received  those  instructions  it  was  my 
supreme  pleasure  to  bestow  on  her  ; and  the  soli- 
citude she  incessantly  expressed  for  my  fancied 
doubtful  fate  ; awakened  my  heart’s  tenderest  re- 
gard and  liveliest  gratitude.  But  though  I ad- 
mired her  genius  and  adored  her  virtues,  the 
sentiment  she  inspired  never  for  a moment  lost 
itjs  character  of  parental  affection ; and  even 
when  I formed  the  determination,  the  accom- 
plishment of  which  you  so  unexpectedly,  so  pro- 
videntially frustrated,  the  gratification  of  any 
selfish  wish,  the  compliance  with  any  passionate 
impulse,  held  no  influence  over  the  determina- 
tion. No,  it  was  only  dictated  by  motives  pure 
a«  the  object  that  inspired  them  ; it  was  the  wish 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


207 


0.  snatching  this  lovely  blossom  from  the  desert 
IV here  she  bloomed  unseen,  of  raising  her  to  that 
c.rcle  in  society  her  birth  entitled  her  to,  and  her 
, "graces  were  calculated  to  adorn  ; of  confirming 
Jiiy  amity  with  ner  father  by  the  tenderest  unity 
.)f  interests  and  affection  ; of  giving  her  a legally 
sanctioned  claim  on  that  part  of  her  hereditary 
property  which  the  suspected  villany  of  my 
steward  had  robbed  her  of ; and  of  retributing 
the  parent  through  the  medium  of  the  child. 

Had  I had  a son  to  offer  her,  1 had  not  offered 
her  myself ; but  my  eldest  was  already  engaged, 
and  for  the  worldly  welfare  of  my  second  an  al- 
liance at  once  brilliant  and  opulent  was  neces- 
sary ; for,  dazzled  by  his  real  or  supposed  talents, 
J.  viewed  his  future  destiny  through  the  medium 
of  parental  ambition,  and  thought  only  of  those 
means  by  which  he  might  become  great,  with- 
out considering  the  more  important  necessity  of 
his  becoming  happy.  Yet,  well  aware  of  the 
phlegmatic  indifference  of  the  one,  and  the  ro- 
mantic imprudence  of  the  other,  I denied  them 
my  confidence,  until  the  final  issue  of  the  adven- 
ture would  render  its  revelation  necessary.  Nor 
did  I suspect  the  possibility  of  their  learning  it 
by  any  other  means  ; for  the  one  never  visited 
Ireland,  and  the  other,  as  the  son  of  Lord  M — , 
ivould  find  no  admittance  to  the  castle  of  Inis- 
iiiore. 

When  a fixed  determination  succeeded  to  some 
months  of  wavering  indecision,  I wrote  to  Glor* 


208 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


villa,  with  whom  I had  been  in  habits  of  episto 
lary  correspondence,  distantly  touching  on  a sub 
ject  I yet  considered  with  timidity,  and  faintly 
demanding  her  sanction  of  my  wishes  before  i 
unfolded  them  to  her  father,  which  I assured  her 
I would  not  do  until  I could  claim  her  openly  in 
my  own  character. 

In  the  interim,  however,  I received  a letter 
from  her,  written  previous  to  her  receipt  of  mine. 
It  began  thus  : — “ In  those  happy  moments  of 
boundless  confidence,  when  the  pupil  and  the 
child  hung  upon  the  instructive  accents  of  the 
friend  and  the  father,  you  have  often  said  to  me, 
‘ I am  not  altogether  what  I seem ; I am  not  only 
grateful,  but  1 possess  a power  stronger  than 
words  of  convincing  those-  to  whom  I owe  so 
much  of  my  gratitude  ; and  should  the  hour  of 
affliction  ever  reach  thee,  Glorvina,  call  on  me  as 
the  friend  who  would  fly  from  the  remotest  cor- 
ner of  the  earth  to  serve,  to  save  thee.’ 

“ The  hour  of  affliction  is  arrived — I call  upo 
you  She  then  described  the  disordered  state  of 
her  father’s  affairs,  and  painted  his  sufferings 
with  all  the  eloquence  of  filial  sorrow,  requesting 
my  advice,  and  flatteringly  lamenting  the  destiny 
which  placed  us  at  such  a distance  from  each 
other. 

It  is  needless  to  add,  that  I determined  to  an- 
swer this  letter  in  person,  and  I only  waited  to 
embrace  my  loved  and  long  estranged  son  on  my 
arrival  m Ireland.  When  I set  out  for  Inismore  I 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


209 


found  the  castle  deserted,  and  learned,  (with  in- 
describable emotions  of  pity  and  indignation,)  that 
the  Prince  and  his  daughter  were  the  inhabitants 
of  a prison.  1 flew  to  this  sad  receptacle  of  suf- 
fering virtue,  and  effected  the  liberation  of  the 
Prince.  There  was  a time  when  the  haughty 
spirit  of  this  proud  chieftain  would  have  revolted 
against  the  idea  of  owing  a pecuniary  obligation 
to  any  man  : but  those  only  who  have  laboured 
under  a long  and  continued  series  of  mental  and 
bodily  affliction,  can  tell  how  the  mind’s  strength 
is  to  be  subdued,  the  energies  of  pride  softened, 
and  the  delicacy  of  refined  feelings  blunted,  by 
the  pressure  of  reiterated  suffering,  of  harassing 
and  incessant  disappointment.  While  the  sur- 
prise of  the  Prince  equalled  his  emotion,  he  ex- 
claimed in  the  vehemence  of  his  gratitude — 
“Teach  me  at  least  how  to  thank  you,  since  to 
repay  you  is  impossible.”  Glorvina  was  at  that 
moment  weeping  on  my  shoulder,  her  hands  were 
clasped  in  mine,  and  her  humid  eyes  beamed  on 
me  all  the  grateful  feelings  of  her  warm  and  sus- 
ceptible soul.  I gazed  on  her  for  a moment, — * 
she  cast  down  her  eyes,  and  I thought  pressed 
my  hand  ; thus  encouraged  I ventured  to  say  to 
the  Prince,  “ You  talk  in  exaggerated  terms  of 
the  little  service  I have  done  you, — would  indeed 
it  had  been  sufficient  to  embolden  me  to  make 
that  request  wfflich  now  trembles  on  my  lips.” 

I paused — ^the  Prince  eagerly  replied,  “ there 


0 


18* 


tiO 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIKL, 


is  nothing  you  can  ask  I am  not  anxious  and 
ready  to  comply  with.” 

I looked  at  Glorvina — she  blushed  and  trem- 
bled. 1 felt  1 was  understood,  and  I added,  “ then 
give  me  a legal  claim  to  become  the  protector  of 
your  daughter,  and  through  her  to  restore  you  to 
that  independence  necessary  for  the  repose  of  a 
proud  and  noble  spirit.  In  a few  days  I shall 
openly  appear  to  the  world,  with  honour  and  with 
safety,  in  my  own  name  and  character.  Take 
this  letter,  it  is  addressed  to  the  Earl  of  M — 
whom  I solemnly  swear  is  not  more  your  enemy 
than  mine,  and  who  consequently  cannot  be 
biased  by  partiality  : from  him _ you  shall  learn 
who  and  what  I am  ; and  until  that  period  I ask 
not  to  receive  the  hand  of  your  inestimable 
daughter.” 

The  Prince  took  the  letter  and  tore  it  in  a 
thousand  pieces  ; exclaiming,  “ I cannot  indeed 
equal,  but  I will  at  least  endeavour  to  imitate 
your  generosity.  You  chose  me  as  your  pro- 
tector in  the  hour  of  danger,  when  confidence 
was  more  hazardous  to  him  who  reposed  than 
him  who  received  it.  You  placed  your  life  in  my 
hands  with  no  other  bond  for  its  security  than  my 
honour ! In  the  season  of  my  distress  you  flew  to 
save  me  : you  lavished  your  property  for  my  re- 
lease, not  considering  the  improbability  of  its  re- 
muneration ! Take  my  child ; her  esteem,  heir 
affections,  have  long  been  yours ; let  me  die  ir 
peace,  by  seeing  her  united  to  a worthy  man 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


211 


that  I knoio  you  are  ; what  else  you  may  be  1 
will  only  learn  from  the  Ups  of  a son-in-law.  Con- 
fidence at  least  shall  be  repaid  by  confidence.”  At 
these  words  the  always  generous,  always  vehe- 
ment and  inconsiderate  Prince  rose  from  his  pil- 
low and  placed  the  hand  of  his  daughter  in  mine, 
confirming  the  gift  with  a tear  of  joy  and  a tender 
benediction.  Glorvina  bowed  her  head  to  receive 
it — her  veil  fell  over  her  face — ^the  index  of  her 
soul  was  concealed : how  then  could  I know 
what  passed  there  ? She  was  silent — she  was 
obedient — and  I was deceived. 

The  Prince,  on  his  arrival  at  the  castle  of  In- 
ismore,  felt  the  hour  of  dissolution  stealing  fast  on 
every  principle  of  life.  Sensible  of  his  situation, 
his  tenderness,  his  anxiety  for  his  child  survived 
every  other  feeling;  nor  would  he  suffer  himself 
-o  be  carried  to  his  chamber  until  he  had  bestow- 
ed her  on  me  from  the  altar.  I knew  not  then 
what  were  the  sentiments  of  Glorvina.  Entwined 
in  the  arms  of  her  doating,  dying  father,  she 
seemed  insensible  to  every  emotion,  to  every 
thought  but  what  his  fate  excited ; but  however 
gratified  I might  have  been  at  the  intentions  of 
the  Prince,  I was  decidedly  averse  to  their 
prompt  execution.  I endeavoured  to  remon- 
strate : a look  from  the  Prince  silenced  every  ob- 

lection : and — . But  here  let  me  drop 

the  veil  of  oblivion  over  the  past : let  me  clear 
from  the  tablets  of  memory  those  records  of  ex- 
traordinary and  rccer.t  circumstances  to  which 


212  THE  WILD  IRISH  0.1RL. 

my  heart  can  never  revert  brt  with  a pang  vibra- 
ting on  its  tenderest  nerve.  It  is,  however,  the 
true  spirit  of  philosophy  to  draw  from  the  evil 
which  cannot  be  remedied  all  the  g^ood  of  which 
in  its  tendency  it  is  yet  susceptible  ; and  since 
the  views  of  my  parental  ambition  are  thus 
□lasted  in  the  bloom,  let  me  at  least  make  him 
happy  whom  it  was  once  my  only  wish  to  ren- 
der eminent : know  then,  my  imprudent  but  still 
dear  son,  that  the  bride  chosen  for  you  by  your 
father’s  policy  has,  by  an  elopement  with  a more 
ardent  lover  (who  followed  her  hither,)  left  your 
hand  as  free  as  your  heart  towards  her  ever  was. 

Take  then  to  thy  bosom  her  whom  heaven 
seems  to  have  chosen  as  the  intimate  associate 
of  thy  soul,  and  whom  national  and  hereditary 
prejudice  would  in  vain  withhold  from  thee.  In 
this  the  dearest,  most  sacred,  and  most  lasting  of 
all  human  ties,  let  the  names  of  Inismore  and 

M be  inseparably  blended,  and  the  distinc 

tions  of  English  and  Irish,  of  Protestant  and 
Catholic,  for  ever  buried.  And,  while  you  look 
forward  with  hope  to  this  family  alliance  being 
prophetically  typical  of  a national  unity  of  inter- 
ests and  affections  between  those  who  may  be 
‘actiously  severed,  but  who  are  naturally  allied, 
'end  your  own  indwidual  efforts  towards  the  con* 
summation  of  an  event  so  devoutly  to  be  wished 
by  every  liberal  mind,  by  every  benevolent  heart. 

During  my  life,  I would  have  you  consider 
those  estates  as  yours,  which  I possess  in  this 


THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL. 


313 


country ; and  at  my  death  such  as  are  not  entail- 
ed. But  this  consideration  is  to  be  indulged  con- 
ditionally, on  your  spending  eight  months  out  of 
every  twelve  on  that  spot  from  whence  the  very 
nutrition  of  your  existence  is  to  be  derived ; and 
in  the  bosom  of  those  from  whose  labour  and  ex- 
ertion your  independence  and  prosperity  are  to 
flow.  Act  not  with  the  vulgar  policy  of  vulgar 
greatness,  by  endeavouring  to  exact  respect 
through  the  medium  of  self-wrapt  reserve, 
proudly  shut  up  in  its  own  self-invested  gran- 
deur ; nor  think  it  can  derogate  from  the  dig- 
nity of  the  English  landholder  openly  to  appear 
in  the  midst  of  his  Irish  peasantry,  with  an  eye 
beaming  complacency,  and  a countenance  smi- 
ling confidence,  and  inspiring  what  it  expresses. 
Show  them  you  do  not  distrust  them,  and  they 
will  not  betray  you,  give  them  reason  to  believe 
you  feel  an  interest  in  their  welfare,  and  they 
will  endeavour  to  promote  yours  even  at  the  risk 
of  their  lives  ; for  the  life  of  an  Irishman  weighs 
but  light  in  the  scale  of  consideration  with  his 
feelings;  it  is  immolated  without  a murmur  to 
the  affections  of  his  heart ; it  is  sacrificed  with- 
out a sigh  to  the  suggestions  of  his  honour. 

Remember  that  you  are  not  placed  by  despot- 
ism over  a band  of  slaves,  creatures  of  the  soil 
and  as  such  to  be  considered ; but  by  Provi- 
dence, over  a certain  portion  of  men,  who,  in 
common  with  the  rest  of  their  nation,  are  the  de- 
scendants of  a brave^  a free,  and  an  enlightened 


JI4  THE  WILD  IRISH  OIRL^ 

people.  Be  more  anxious  to  remove  ccmses  than 
to  punish  effexts ; for  trust  me  that  it  is  only  to 
“ Scotch  the  snake — not  kill  it,’’ 
to  confiQ3  error,,  and  to  awaken  vengeance. 

Be  cautious  how  you  condemn  ; be  more  cau* 
tious  how  you  deride,  but  be  ever  watchful  to 
moderate  that  ardent  impetuosity  which  flows 
from  the  natural  tone  of  the  national  character, 
which  is  the  inseparable  accompaniment  of  quick 
and  acute  feelings,  which  is  the  invariable  concom- 
itant of  constitutional  sensibility  : and  remember 
that  the  same  ardour  of  disposition,  the  same  vehe- 
mence of  soul,  which  indames  their  errors  beyond 
the  line  of  moderate  failing,  nurtures  their  better 
qualities  beyond  the  growth  of  moderate  excellence. 

Within  the  induence  then  of  your  own  bound- 
ed circle,  pursue  those  means  of  promoting  the 
welfare  of  the  individuals  consigned  to  your  care 
and  protection,  which  lies  within  the  scope  of  all 
those  in  whose  hands  the  destinies  of  their  less 
fortunate  brethren  are  placed.  Cherish  by  kind- 
ness into  renovating  life  those  national  virtues, 
which  though  so  often  blighted  in  the  full  luxuri- 
ance of  their  vigorous  blow  by  the  fatality  of  cir- 
cumstances, have  still  been  ever  found  vital  at 
the  root,  which  only  want  the  nutritive  beam  of 
encouragement,  the  genial  glow  of  condding  af- 
fection, and  the  refreshing  dew  of  tender  com- 
miseration, to  restore  them  to  their  pristine  bloom 
and  vigour:  place  the  standard  of  support  within 
their  sphere  ; and  like  the  tender  vine  which  has 


THE  WILD  IRISH  GIRL. 


215 


been  suffered  bj  neglect  to  waste  its  treasures  on 
the  sterile  earth,  you  will  behold  them  naturally 
turning  and  gratefully  twining  round  the  foster- 
ing stem,  which  rescues  them  from  a cheerless 
and  grovelling  destiny:  and  when  by  justly  and 
adequately  rewarding  the  laborious  exertions  of 
that  life  devoted  to  your  service,  the  source  of 
their  poverty  shall  be  dried  up,  and  the  miseries 
that  flowed  from  it  shall  be  forgotten  ; when  the 
warm  hand  of  benevolence  shall  have  wiped 
away  the  cold  dew  of  despondency  from  their 
brow  j when  reiterated  acts  of  tenderness  and 
humanity  shall  have  thawed  the  ice  which  chills 
the  native  flow  of  their  ardent  feelings  ^ and  when 
the  light  of  instruction  shall  have  dispelled  the 
gloom  of  ignorance  and  prejr.dice  from  their  ne- 
glected minds,  and  their  lightened  hearts  shall 
again  throb  with  the  cheery  pulse  of  national 
•xility  j — then,  tlienij  and  not  till  then,  will  you 
behold  the  day  star  of  national  virtue  rising 
brightly  over  the  horizon  of  their  happy  exist- 
ence; while  the  felicity  which  has  awakened  to 
the  touch  of  reason  and  humanity  shall  return 
back  to,  and  increase  the  source  from  which  it 
originally  flowed  : as  the  elements,  which  in 
gradual  progress  brighten  into  flame,  terminate  in 
a liquid  light,  which,  reverberating  in  sympathy 
to  its  former  kindred,  genially  warms  and  grate- 
fully cheers  the  whole  order  of  universal  nature. 


THE  END. 


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